i’ve always felt admirably calm in crises. trained in first aid + cpr, i handled my own kid’s ER trips with urgency + an unruffled air, despite pooling blood or a backward arm. but how i fell apart then – both slowly depleting as i read read read plus the immediate surfeit of fear + dread – felt new. sorrowful. and its been difficult to creep back from its many edges.
i have read myself into a frenzy of “should” and “need to” and “why am i not,” and i’ve realized that it’s because i haven’t given myself any down time to process the input. a continuous diet of new fare does not result in an automatic new life; it results in discomfort, and a bit of mental crises, honestly.
the thing is, i don’t always want to do my own thing. if we went out for the day, sure. if we didn’t, if we lingered mostly indoors and worked on a project, or listened to books, then sometimes i am too bored to do my own thing.
most of me has been waiting for a return to our former life, and it’s not coming.
i wonder if george feels so much of his life isn’t about him, like the focus drifted and the lens reset slightly off-center and now has set there so long he’s unsure if it’s okay to bring that focus back around? to recenter himself firmly in his life, to follow his own pursuits.