you're lying in bed and it's very late and you realise that the dis-ease you feel, while initially mild, soon threatens to permanently take away your sleep for the night. you're in the sharp and pointy arms of anxiety caused by any number of things, big and small, each of them projecting an almost physical sense of discomfort like experimental electrodes in your brain shooting impulses and shocks. you very quickly realise that if you are to get any sleep you need to go for pharmaceutical help. you get up and find your magical bottle of lorazepam.
you take the pill, wash it down with water and go back to bed, vowing to stay awake to watch it take effect. you lie there and think of the things whose sharp edges are even now intruding into your peace of mind. the move south is a big one - so many things to take care of. so many pieces of information to gather and weave into a whole. your inability to have a meaningful conversation with mr. monkey on the topic of the move (it weaves from exasperation at your wanting to know more to frustration with your lack of progress in finding detailed information on all aspects of the move, both fuelled, i'm fairly certain, by his exasperation with your continued unemployment. all this he would deny.) does not make the process easier.
the fact that your mother is coming in less than a week contributes a rather significant sense of discomfort. you love your mother, but the passive-aggressive melodrama that accompanied you merely asking her for the dates of her trip doesn't make you feel particularly calm about things. you are already angry and resentful and trying really really hard to actively use buddhist philosophy to calm yourself down and realising the absurdity of it. things aren't helped by the fact that you spent the day with your aunt and you told her all your mother-related problems, which made her floodgates open on her sister-related problems, as a result of which you learned some new things about your mother that you didn't necessarily need to know. and the bitch session only made you feel more anxious, and then guilty for not being loyal to the woman who bore you.
there is the shoe fetishist saga (in another post. once it's over. if it's ever over.) which, under normal circumstances would likely just make you vaguely uncomfortable but now adds another layer of pokiness. you are starting to hate those shoes, but are appreciating the great blog post it will eventually turn into.
there's the renovation your mom will be overseeing when she comes, but which you must oversee in her absence, ensuring satisfactory tiles and whatnots are chosen for the bathroom and the shower head will please everyone. but no pressure!
you lie there and enumerate all the points of discomfort, waiting for the sweet wash of benzodiazepine relief. you open your eyes in the dark and look at the colour-sapped still life on the bedside table and wish someone could capture that in a painting - the lack of colour that is not quite black and white, the fuzziness of edges and outlines, the clear perception of more hiding just out of the range of visibility. it's really rather beautiful.
you lie there and feel the knot relax a bit and you perform the psychological version of poking around to see if it still hurts or if the painkiller is kicking in. somewhere during this time, you finally fall asleep.
the alarm (birds singing on a too-short loop) wakes you. it's in the other room so, fuzzy or no, you need to get up. and now you're up and another day begins.
deeeeeep breath in.