i could be at a writing workshop today, but i didn’t register. and i could have gone anyway, because the facilitator of the workshop would have let me if i had texted her last minute and asked nicely, but i didn’t ask, even though i thought about it. i’m sick again. or sick still. whichever, i’m not sure. but i could have gone, because my sickness isn’t contagious and when i’m this kind of sick i’m going to feel crappy whether i stay in bed or get up and do something, so sickness isn’t the real reason i’m still in bed and not at the workshop. the real reason is that i don’t want to get dressed. and i don’t want to be around people. and i like writing from bed while listening to the workers walk on the roof above me and hammer in new shingles.
if i weren’t sick, i’d want to be at the shaman-led spirit-guided hallucinating ceremony requiring a high-level secret invitation that i received, but i’ve been hallucinating for a couple weeks with this fever and don’t need to ingest magical herbs for that experience.
if i weren’t sick and loved camping i would have picked up my best friend c and gone to the beach for an overnight sleep adventure. but i am sick and i hate sleeping on the ground because I don’t sleep well in a bed and i never sleep at all on the ground.
since i am sick and in bed and not at the writing workshop or the shaman ceremony or beach camping, since i am sick and in bed and writing to you, reaching out to you, asking you for something but not sure what, wanting to give you something but not sure what, trying to avoid the photo imprinted in my mind that i saw on facebook this morning of my ex-wife at a party last night wearing boots i gave her years ago, the boots i wanted for myself but weren’t available in my size but were available in her size, so i bought them for her instead, because for most of our lives, that’s how i shopped for both of us–whatever i liked, i bought in her size or mine, whichever was available. i miss loving her well more than i miss being loved by her. i loved loving her. which is why hating her ruined me. hate ruins anything.
i read two and a half years of journal writing this morning and was frustrating by the recurring themes of wanting, attempting, and promising to leave toxic relationships that took me too long to leave. i’ve left those relationships now. and now i stay in bed to avoid getting dressed. i don’t go out. sickness might be an excuse or might be the real reason.
i wonder, do i have to get as dressed as i think i do in order to leave the apartment? i have half a closet full of little dresses that feel almost like wearing nothing at all. i could trick myself into putting one on, but then where would i go? everything i want to do is here at home. i can write from here, read from here, listen to music and dance in my living room and stretch on the floor and eat popsicles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner without getting dressed.
i wonder if this is my new life of self-care and granting myself permission to do and be exactly as i please or if this is depression. maybe it can be both. maybe depression is self-care when allowed to sit and linger softly and give space for the grieving that is mine to do.