The Third Sunrise
Something is wrong with my coffee maker. Something is off with my mind. It is June. It is raining outside. I wake up at 4:30 a.m. A cat who likes to screech for no apparent reason. But he loves me. He pushes his little fluffy cat feet into my chest when I sleep, inadvertently giving me asthma. A small price to pay for feeling loved? Animal's have always made me smile. They don't need much; they just need me and I take care of them.
Back to the coffee maker; the coffee is not waking me up. I use the tassimo and add two shots of espresso. Shit, I am still tired.
A couple of days ago; in bed at 2:30 pm. A headache. Workaholic I am I bring my day-timer into my room. I make notes. I take Tylenol. A headache-- a migraine. I can't move. Fuck. I call my parents:
"Mom, Dad, I can't move...no the Tylenol is not working. No, the migraine pill did not work. No I cannot take my dog pee, No...fuck" Crying hurts my head but I can't stop crying. Migraines really hurt
Dad comes over with Advil. Advil sort of works. He changes the light bulbs and gives me a bag of food, "a care package" from my mom. I love my parents and my parents love me.
But I give half the food back to my dad. I eat a lot of oatmeal, fruit and chocolate. Sometimes, that is it. Food can still scare me sometimes, invade my mind, and it lives there right now.
They know I am going through a tough spell, a spell that seems to be taking longer to recover from, and they still love me. Could I ever love a child in this way?
The stress! The book! The PR I cannot seem to do without landing in bed with migraines crying like a fucking idiot. I feel weak; unaccomplished, useless. How do other writers with this illness do these things? What is wrong with me? I feel sort of alone. A lot alone.
I am moving in two weeks. Moving throws me off. I have moved ten times in ten years, at least. Maybe if I were not moving I could handle life better.
I can write fiction and I look forward to a time, in a few months, when I can do this. Publishing and writing fiction is like living in someone else's life and how glorious is that?
Welcome home niccotine.
I am thankful to people, you know who you are, who understand my need to take care of myself right now despite commitment. Thank you.
Time to work.