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Meeting the wall
Mar. 2nd, 2009 10:26 pmI hit the wall on Friday. I was only a few blocks from home, waiting for the light to change with a hot pizza on the passenger seat, when my thought processes went into a tailspin that I couldn't phase myself out of. I spent the remainder of my time at the stoplight and half of my time in motion screaming toward my windshield at the top of my lungs, until my throat felt ragged and my ears rang. I didn't talk all through dinner.
I hit the wall on Saturday. I was on the futon this time, pondering matters that were hardly crisis-level, but which steered my brain into another feedback loop—couldn't talk, couldn't not talk—and the only way out was literally to kick the contents of the coffee table across the room. I acted calm before, I acted calm after, but during I couldn't give a damn where anything landed. I picked up everything I'd scattered, then immediately went to take come silence to clear my head. And discovered that I couldn't.
I hit the wall today. I wasn't at work more than a half hour when it crept in: the realization that I would be there for hours, with no hope of reprieve. It was just a workday, same as all the others, but I was ready to crawl under the desk and stay there, fighting intruders off with tooth and claw if I needed to. I dashed home at lunch with a mind to grab my bottle of Klonopin, until I realized that it would put me to sleep, and that wasn't allowed, either.
Yes, I'm fine. And when it all comes out in the wash, I'll be fine in the end, come what may; it all comes and goes, always has and always will. It just frightens me to know there's a wall, and meeting it is not a matter of "if," but "when."
I hit the wall on Saturday. I was on the futon this time, pondering matters that were hardly crisis-level, but which steered my brain into another feedback loop—couldn't talk, couldn't not talk—and the only way out was literally to kick the contents of the coffee table across the room. I acted calm before, I acted calm after, but during I couldn't give a damn where anything landed. I picked up everything I'd scattered, then immediately went to take come silence to clear my head. And discovered that I couldn't.
I hit the wall today. I wasn't at work more than a half hour when it crept in: the realization that I would be there for hours, with no hope of reprieve. It was just a workday, same as all the others, but I was ready to crawl under the desk and stay there, fighting intruders off with tooth and claw if I needed to. I dashed home at lunch with a mind to grab my bottle of Klonopin, until I realized that it would put me to sleep, and that wasn't allowed, either.
Yes, I'm fine. And when it all comes out in the wash, I'll be fine in the end, come what may; it all comes and goes, always has and always will. It just frightens me to know there's a wall, and meeting it is not a matter of "if," but "when."
