It’s verge collection time.
When everyone throws out their unwanted junk, old furniture, fridges, boxy tvs.
This house is full of old junk, my grandfather is a hoarder. It’s an illness, they say. I wish I could open all the windows, crank some Pearl Jam, and ditch things over the balcony. Start again with white cane and furniture made of driftwood.
It’s more about me than the house, wanting things fresh and new, of course. My messenger bleeps and I see it’s my tenant from up the hill, asking what type of garden edging I’d like.
Whatever, I text. Whatever you’d like, what you think is best.
She thinks I’m the best landlady ever.
My friend, who I’ve let ride my good horse this year, calls for a chat, asking me about moving agistment centres, if he might need the chiro, she went out on Saturday and a bit of fencing was down and I just want to scream.
‘Why won’t you people leave me alone and here’s my credit card number and it’s not that I don’t care it’s because I just can’t and if I could I would have stayed at home!’
Fuck. And the thing is, I could be feeling fine tomorrow. I’m deliberately not making any big decisions, not doing anything I can’t undo because I’m not to be trusted at the moment.
It’s the only damage control I can exercise when my brain and body are on the edge of a freak-out. I throw $30 of steak to the dogs because I think it ‘smells funny’, vomit in the sink cooking eggs, notice my hands are shaking and my mouth tastes like metal. So I know not to trust myself, this isn’t real, this is just an imbalance and you’re doing everything you can to sort it out, I tell myself.
I’m so lucky. So lucky I have the luxury of being able to give myself some time. The relief floods me sometimes, the feeling of not having to make hard decisions, which horse goes first, do we sell our house now or later or subdivide the land or stick it out or or or. I’m blessed and I know that but my thankfulness doesn’t change the anxiety I feel when people bring up stuff I’d rather not think about, when my beautiful old horse has his first paddock injury in the 8 years I’ve had him, and I have to find the energy reserve I don’t have to deal with things that would have been minor once.
So my best best friend comes and takes Bailey for an icecream, and I sit here and write all this shit out, and work on my novel, and I don’t know what I’d do without my friends. I call my other riding instructor come friend, who I could barely talk to about my own horse and ask if she’d help me run Drum to the vets because I just don’t want to do it by myself, and the answer is of course. I’ll always help where I can. And it took me two whole days of feeling sick over something so minor for it to even occur to me that I could ask for help.
For an apparently smart person, I can be so incredibly slow.
And this morning I woke up to this 🙂
Life is good, really everything is fine, I just need my mind and body to catch up 🙂
x
Hypersensationalism 