This is an official record of these intense last days (in this rental house), including the last three posts:
Every morning starts the same. Every morning is full of promise, as though my rose bushes were blooming, which they aren’t. Not to say the morning promises are empty, but they are a bit misleading. It sounds as though I’m blaming the morning for my difficult days, because I am. Because I’d rather point fingers at the days than at myself. But I am to blame for the slim results of the days and the lack of enjoyment from beginning to end. The shoddy mold is my own creation…sort of. I don’t do well under stress unless I’ve been sufficiently regenerated. And this summer, I haven’t been, which worries me (but that’s a different story). The stress has mounted and my anxiety accordingly and the new medication has done nothing to help. I calm myself in the evening, but I can’t lie in bed and repeatedly solve a Rubik’s cube at any given moment of the day. So I need a new coping mechanism. My fault in all of this comes in when I don’t stop going when the anxiety hits. I keep going. Try not to pass out. Make poor decisions knowing I shouldn’t be making decisions at all. All it takes is a few minutes of sitting in the car and meditating or something. Taking a break. I think. Makes sense. I‘ll try today.
I am on the porch typing on my phone. The air is still cool. Wet, but cool. And peaceful. I feel good. I’m meeting the lady this morning for two hours to talk about language stuff, and then I’m off to finish what I didn’t finish yesterday. And get it right this time. The first time, this time. And more importantly, do it right this time.
The day holds promise. I feel that I might make good on it. But I’m not gonna make any promises. I’m leaving that in morning’s court.