Lost days

Sorry, I lost a few days.  I fell into the black hole, you know, the pit filled with quicksand, and stayed stuck.  My doctor called me in to go over my lab tests and started in on me about the extra protein in my blood.  Really.  I told her, "Look, I really don't care about protein in my blood.  Right now I'm half-way between I-don't-give-a-shit and kill-me-now."  She put me in the hospital.

I have six black-and-blues from donating blood to those nasty little vials--one of them is as big as a plum and has turned a sickly yellow-green.  But someone finally figured out I needed to be off the Seroquel.  Like all meds, it doesn't work for everyone.

And like all meds, in order for them to work, you have to take them.  That was the mistake I made in Boston.  I thought I was fine and decided I didn't need medication anymore.

And I loved Boston.  I loved the cobblestone streets and the autumn leaves so intensely painted they looked fake, dressed in colors like salmon pink and day-glow orange.  I loved the way I could walk from my apartment to little shops that sold spices or books or vegetables stacked in little piles.

But I lost it.  Both ways.  I lost my temper and my self-control.  Then I lost my job, my home, and the place I loved to live. 

Oh, well.  I've decided to stop beating myself about the head and ears over that one.  I'm trying to love my new home in the desert.  I'm trying to do better, trying to think before I shoot my mouth off.

I have some good things here:  Family.  A hovering, too-motherly, but loving sister.  A bit-too-stuffy brother-in-law who saved me from living in a cardboard box.  A poorly paid, but fun job with great perks.  And, of course, men.  Men to talk to, men to spend time with, think about, dream about, and maybe one day, fall in love with. 

Just not today.

Today I am still unraveling.  I am unwinding, looking for my core.
Like a torn sweater with a loose piece of yarn that tempts you to pull on it.
Of course, we all know what happens when we try that little trick.   We wind up with a pile of spaghetti.  Like my brain.

But I've stopped whining about that, too.
I have a second chance.  And I'm trying not to blow this one.

Rachel