Dark box

Photo: wall mosaic in Dupont subway station, Toronto, Monday afternoon.

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I had a mad bit of running around today: drove to the hardware and picked up some beading tools and supplies, came back home, wrapped it for Brenna's birthday, then headed back to the postal outlet to mail it and pick up a parcel that had arrived for me.

The latter turned out to be a book gift from lowfatmuffin: The Man Who Fell in Love with the Moon, by Tom Spanbauer. It couldn't have come at a better time. Since I arrived home yesterday afternoon, a deep sense of isolation has set in.

Last night I went to bed in despair. This morning I didn't want to get out of bed, but I did. I hope like mad this is just a blip, the crash after two incredibly busy weeks, one full day after another, my life swirling with activity and people. Fellowship, communion, parenthood, responsibility. Art galleries and museums, long walks, sights and sounds. It has filled me.

Now suddenly life goes back to normal. I'm here at home alone. My Visa debt inched a little higher over the last few weeks, which means I can't afford to go out or do much of anything for the rest of the month, just work on getting it paid back down. My thrill over the news that the choir is going to Carnegie Hall in 15 months has not lasted. I cannot afford another expensive trip like the one to Montreal in the foreseeable future unless my situation improves drastically. That would mean earning a lot of money, but at present my only clear objective is to start working in some capacity.

Just working is all. Earning much money comes second. I have to go easy. Days like this remind me of that. Days when it feels like the universe is closing in, a universe populated entirely with strangers.

I haven't been working very well on my friendships lately. Being a dad has distracted me. It was good being so busy with Marian and Brenna. Now they have gone back to school and who knows whether I'll see them again before Christmas. So I'm back here in Guelph with nothing between getting out of bed in the morning and going back to bed in the next early morning but my own company. Yesterday I opened a dark box of unfinished business in my soul, stuff I hadn't even been aware I was neglecting.

I have a lot to do. A novel to write. And this is supposed to be a self-care time, a few weeks of looking after business. I have an appointment coming up with an intake worker who will hopefully refer me to a new psychiatrist. I have paperwork to do, programs to apply to, assistance to look for. But in the middle of the day I get tired of looking after this person, this me. I wish someone else would do the job. I'm tired.

Last night I wanted Them to take my brain and soak it in cold storage for a few millennia. Let me sleep under the mountains, let the earth fold over and be my comforter. Wake me when it's all over, when people are done fighting, and power has stopped thrashing the masses of humanity. Let me sleep until silence falls, then let me rise and see what the stars look like in another billion years.

I've already said this, but I know I've neglected some friends lately. I need to do some outreach, work that's good for the longterm but feels like hell at the moment. My brain doesn't get the knack of building and maintaining my sense of security with people I care about.

These times always remind me of that Star Trek TNG episode where Beverly Crusher's universe is imploding. One by one everyone is gone and she is threatened with her own extinction. At least I know it's all in my head, but the trick is figuring out how to set myself free.

( Another mosaic )