…the dead again, which is my way of saying that anxiety surrounds me, but this time I won’t force myself to snap out of it as fast as I usually do nowadays.
This time I will allow myself that setup time it always takes to find that drawer marked “I’ll worry about that later.” in peace and quiet, for a week or two. Probably just one.
(BTW; thanks a mill Bodil Jönsson, what you taught the Swedes about setup time ought to gain you a portrait on a banknote one day.)
Not put on a brave face with lip gloss and mascara straight away. Not sashay out into the world with an Oscar-worthy smile on and not let a super superficial “Well, haaaallo! Hoooow are you doooing?!” come over my lips for a while.
This process — usually, as I said above, a week or two — always has had its set time frame but after forty I’ve learned to cover it up with eyeliner and new ideas to present at work or too much wine at a dinner party I didn’t want to attend in the first place.
In the really, really old days it could take months but these days the walk with the dead passes faster and I very seldom – to even say ‘never’ but then I have to knock on wood after it’s been said faster than a Formula 1 pit stop — fall into that narrow and deep hole that’s always being digged by my side.
This might be thanks to age, this might be because of a Valium now and then, this might be because the lessons life decided to teach our family have been fewer the last three to four years. I don’t know and I don’t even [over]analyze it anymore.
So what’s different this time, this week? Well, I turned down a really big, cool and probably fun party, two meetups with two old and so amazing friends. And you know what, all they said was: “That’s cool! We’ll meet for dinner next week…or the next. Just take care. Sometimes silence and me time is all you need.”
Not even one single mentioning of the awful “It will do you gooood to get out!” or the even more horrid “To be active is the only way to gain a sound mind.” (Yeah, right! To forget about your problems for six hours and then being hit with escalated anxiety for the next eight. The eight hours you ought to be asleep, you fucking moron!)
I think I’ve written it before but I’ll write it again; if I am defined by my friends I must be one hell of a human being.
So now I’ll take a walk. On my own, so just stay away and no, I don’t “need to talk about it”. And if someone has a problem with that I’ll sing within: “Fuck you. Fuck you very, very much.”
I like Lily Allen.