One of those weeks

I'm all out of spoons

Today’s accompanying tune: “this is me trying” by Taylor Swift

It has been one of those weeks. One where things fall through, mismatch, cower and bend. One of those weeks where months’ dedicated planning becomes undone in the matter of minutes. One of those weeks with far too little movement in the body, and far too much in the brain. One of those weeks that push and pull at my psyche, one of those weeks where doubt invites itself in. One of those weeks where I have to remind myself that, no, I’m not imagining things. One of those weeks with little sleep, sure, but a tenuous grasp on reality remains.

It was bound to happen. I’d been teetering on the edge of sanity since before the move, when I began averaging about six hours of sleep nightly and the dogs started understanding that something was happening. Their grasp on reality has only faltered, and hasn’t yet begun to recover. The upheaval of our lives was a major transitional event that has remained under the radar to those around us. Within a week of moving, we’d welcomed our first dog sitting guest. Within two weeks, we were back on a plane and the dogs were hustled into a new boarding facility while we all just hoped to come back without permanent damage. Shortly after our return, one of the dogs made her first trip to the emergency vet. I went to a concert and a talk by one of my most admired authors. I haven’t improved my average hours of sleep in the nearly month since we’ve arrived, but I am happy to have done each activity or hosted each good boy and girl because I know community is about showing up for those around you even when it’s not convenient. I’m willing to do my part to bring that community into existence, but there is one thing I have to admit.

It has been a lot.

Normally, a lot is okay. A lot is preferred, actually. A lot is how I get things done, how I move forward. How I can remain occupied and entertained — as each task loses its novelty, another always awaits, ready to be taken on! It is a gift to know boredom, to appreciate its presence after a spate of A Lot. It is because I revel in A Lot that I adore boredom, that I refuse to optimize every moment for maximum productivity. It is simply not how my fits-and-starts brain functions.

But this time, a lot has accumulated over months, forming a crust around my sense of self. It has begun to harden, to affect the body hiding just underneath. A lot has morphed into Too Much and Too Many. Even before one of those weeks, it was simply too much. I’d given out all my spoons and only had knives to spare (if you are unaware of the spoon theory, I highly recommend this explanation). I handed those out, warily. Now, I have nothing left to offer. There are no reserves, nothing left for a rainy day. No slack in the system — everything feels quite taut. There is no reprieve, no relief in sight. I stare at the calendar, wishing it wiped clean. I want only to be, to rest, to recover. To move my body and relax my mind. To reintroduce a little slack into the system, to tamp down the raging anxiety. To settle in, ever so gently. To stop snapping at passersby that walk too slow or flipping off the car that cut me off in rush-hour traffic. To be able to pick up a book and absorb its contents, to enjoy the slow lull of a dreary afternoon. To sleep a full eight hours and wake refreshed instead of preemptively exhausted. To begin to imagine what life will be like in our new home. To help calm the dogs and ease their own worries. To plan and plant a garden. To watch trashy television. To wander. To explore. To set foot on trail and breathe the oxygen expelled by trees much older than any I’ve ever known. To forget to check my phone and avoid, for a moment, the horrors it contains.

I’m paralyzed with overwhelm. Unable to think more than a day in advance while simultaneously unable to be present. I exist in a state of perpetual fugue, somewhere between disassociation and space cadet. Things are getting done; I am doing those things. I’m ticking through projects and lists and making sure others are doing what they said they would when they said they would do it. But I’m not here, not actually, for any of it. I am floating above, watching my body move in fits and starts between obligations, knowing I’ve let someone down somewhere along the way. I wonder how much longer I can stay afloat, how much longer I can keep all the plates spinning even as rocks whiz past my face, determined to ruin it all. How many more nights I can squeeze out with the bare minimum of REM sleep before my brain starts oozing out of my ears. How much longer I can face the world empty-handed and spoonless as others demand more.

I gave the dogs anti-anxiety medication after we’d landed in Washington and enviously watched as they drifted off to sleep, their muscles relaxing and their bodies lengthening as the stresses built up faded away. They dreamt, wagging their tales and loosening their tongues from their mouths. They ran and played and yipped. I rubbed my shoulders and watched, hoping some of their newfound serenity diffused into the air, allowing my lungs to breathe in and absorb just a fraction of how they were feeling. To feel my muscles relax, the tension slipping away. To forget the endless list of to-dos and obligations and to set down the stressors I’d been carrying along the spine of the West Coast. To sleep, if only for a moment. To refuel and refill the silverware drawer so I could be ready for the next round.

But of course, it was one of those weeks. One that only added to the stress, to the sleepless nights, to the growing sense of detachment and loneliness. One that, while steadily keeping time with time itself in its slow march onward, felt only like a step backwards. One where the clouds blotted out the stars each night and the sun each day. At the very least, I can make it one more day.

Here’s to one of those weeks.

- Megan