confession: 32 hours after my fever breaking, after 24 hours of fever hallucinating and fever fainting, i’m getting in the car to drive six hours to another state. the reasons for this roadtrip are love, a false belief in my invulnerability, and nonrefundable prepaid hotel reservations.
confession: because i was fever hallucinating, i thought the gifts delivered to my doorstep were for my birthday and not because i was sick. i’d rather receive birthday gifts than get well gifts, so my hallucination served me and the giver well.
confession: i’m grossly in love. i’m much less productive when i’m in love. my experience of love is wholly engrossing.
confession: i dragged my post-fever aching body to yoga class yesterday evening because i thought stretching might unkink the ouchiest sections. when she walked into class and sat in the teaching position i thought, “oh yeah, she’s the anorexic one.” i took class with her once before, about six months ago, and was distracted by her tiny bones poking through her thin skin and her big head holding her pretty face wearing too much make-up. yesterday i closed my eyes, listened to her voice, and let her lead me through a very tough work-out, one i knew she was easing back for her non-anorexic students. when i opened my eyes at the end of class, i could see her in me and me in her and i had more compassion for both of us.
confession: instead of getting slizzarded with the lovies in louisiana this weekend, i’m taking painkillers and muscle relaxants, because my swollen lymph nodes let me know that i ain’t as well as i’m pretending to be.
confession: lately, muscle relaxants are my drug of choice. i invent songs of praise and sing them to cyclobenzaprine.
confession: i keep forgetting to add that extra year this past birthday contributed to my age.
confession: my mother is trying to be nice. i wish her effort wasn’t obvious and necessary.
confession: premonitions of bitterness and resentment are my cues to leave a relationship.
confession: i have a cat who loves trains and trucks. she runs to the balcony when she hears them outside. she is the kitty equivalent of a three-year-old boy.
confession: i woke myself up because i was dreaming about her and the kids, dreams that are memories about actual events that transpired. i woke up angry. once the anger passed, sadness hung around until i ran it out.
confession: rub more love on it. and if that ain’t enough, use lube.