The roses have extrusions of their tissues to look like lychees. It looks something like the same blight/parasite that was in the Saskatoon berries this year. What is it that we are dealing with? Or not dealing with since I figure the rose bushes can sort themselves out.
I feel lodged in a perennial state of under-informed.
I woke with a “roaring head”, noisy with accusations and readying the nerves to be jangled then shot.
For what? Yesterday was fine. Nothing particularly new has occurred. There’s nothing particularly stressful on the near horizon. Is it a nice safe time to place a little deflected anxiety? There never is a good time.
On waking I thought, maybe another dream could shake free my blood chemistry so I tried to cuddle and doze myself into a better day, but when I woke again I was screaming in confrontation against a woman telling her “I’ve hated every cookie you’ve ever bought.”
Against alertness it seems hardly the scope of the usual bad dream of being chased by the mob as a defector and bloodily killing someone to live a new life.
The climax of spite over cookies seems comic, but in the dream it was the most vile hurtful thing, and it hit its target.
All day my sense of tactile and audio have been cranked. I processed slowly as if in glue. I feel inside a skew and want to hermit because I can’t trust myself to react proportionally. And I don’t forgive myself for any other option. I feel as tho from any direction that I’m “loved despite” rather than “cherished because”. But that’s just the usual playbook of taunting of the bully depression.
I can’t just forget the set the pan on lower heat because of smoke point without recrimination from within. The noise that is as much a rhythm, an intonation of bickering more than words starts up and my energies nosedive. I can ignore it but it’s there to ignore. It’s a parasitic use of energy and it’s hard not to get sucked into its energy by lashing at it but that’s being suckered and playing by its rules of engagement instead of being the adult to myself.
I can tell from my muscles that I jump at unexpected sounds. I can tell by hubby that my face and tone are flat and my animation is shut off. I feel guilty about that but I can feel myself crash inwards. If pressed I lash and that’s good for no one. If I tongue-talk there’s no sense but when I type, my fingers-brain are partitioned to logic. I use external stillness until it soaks in. Perhaps it’s adaptive or maladaptive. I am listening to and honouring my own needs by quiet.
Of course, I’d rather be efficient than do real-life-compromise workarounds. It’s be simpler if I weren’t talking around the noisemaker like a monkey in the middle between me and the crock pot, between me and the software, between me and the cat.
Despite I made a few batches of soup for the freezer, chilli for the freezer, a few marinaded salads, edits to a proof, edits to another proof, laundry put away but little by way of writing or reading. Some days are built for physical life-running where it doesn’t matter how you feel. I wish I could will myself to a different bodily state. Finally it’s abating and I can make and make out distinct words.
I know I’ll float up again that even if I do nothing, I float, even if I feel like I’m thrashing and drowning. I know opposing the funk does nothing. Maybe focussed tasks can carry me to a new energy. Or maybe it is just busy work.
Maybe going into the sun and getting my blood pumping will do the trick but when I’m prone to overstimulation, my capacity to filter out is compromised and that can send me the wrong way to a panic attack. Which I can weather, but I’d rather not. It might equally well knock me clear of this.
My usual strategy of mental exercise is no good when I’m stuck for hours in Winnie-the-Pooh fog when simple things take large concentration and cannot get internal validation only internal criticism.
Getting myself sorted enough to have clarity to know where I am in the repeating pattern and to let go of the expectation that if I just do some magic thing right, this will never occur again. When I feel like this, I have to learn how not to jump on myself. That’s a vestigial left over from childhood. Smarten up, straighten up, toughen up, instead of listen with compassion, and give yourself love and slack enough to grow how you need to. And flow when you will.
Workoholic that I am, it’s not as if I’m at risk for becoming a lazy bum. I can give myself permission for downtime, even at inconvenient times.
Storm systems of the body make a tremendous noise but because I can write it’s a sign of the relenting of rain.