All week long I feel like I need just a little bit more sleep. Dragging. I force more coffee and move slower. Pretending I don’t know what’s happening.
On Friday I can barely get out of bed. On my walk back from my therapist’s office I sit down on a bench and debate calling a car. Exhausted. Drained.
I spend Saturday just barely functioning. We go to a new building and sign on an apartment. My head is all watery, trying to put pieces together. Forcing itself to function.
Sunday. Monday. Couch-locked again. I hide under a pile of blankets and drink as much water as I can. My achy body whispering, “I told you to slow down.”
“So. Many. Layers.”
I wrestle off my ski coat, fleece-lined sweatshirt, and down-filled vest.
The shape of my body finally makes an appearance.
Move the pillows, sit down, and pull my feet underneath me.
“We’re like Russian nesting dolls this time of year, aren’t we?”
It’s the same every time I’m here.
He lights a tea candle,
I settle myself and take a drink of water
out of my Klean Kanteen.
Pause. Deep breath.
“How’ve you been?”
“Good,” he says, smiles at me,
but does not return the question.
Therapy. Continue reading →