Losing my shit
Originally written 9/15. Disquietingly prophetic. My Lyme hit in November.
On this, the eve of the first anniversary of Pat’s stroke, I can feel it creeping along the edges—soon, I may lose my shit. I don’t mean tearing apart someone from billing over the phone (been there) or screaming at a family member for some minor mistake (done that). I mean Losing. My. Shit. Big stuff. Biblical. I feel it coming.
What I don’t know is what it’s going to look like. Will I grab my little guy, hop on a plane to Mexico, and stay there for a year or so? Will I be the perpetrator of road rage? (although I don’t have a gun, so I guess it would be road yelling). Will I just start crying and be unable to stop? Quit? Take to my bed and just not get up? This is the one that most people end up with, I think. People who just can’t go on. I hate this one. Not for me, I think.
Will my body take the bullet and create a health crisis of my own? That happens a lot too. Also unappealing.
On this one year anniversary as the “you’re completely fucked” envelopes keep landing on my table—no health insurance, no life insurance, no money—will I eventually just leave them lying there, unopened? Just wait as things crumple and fall down around us? So tempting…
My new, enlightened, “When life gives you turds, make lemonade” philosophy assures me of this: I can’t plan my shit-losing. Because that would be too straight-forward and clear. That’s not how life works. You’re following the magician’s cues—“Look over here! Eye on the prize! Sparkley shimmery…” meanwhile the other hand is launching those turds your way. So I will relax (see? I’ve learned something) and allow my shit-losing to unfold in its on way and time. Because you can’t plan these things. Or, arguably, much of anything else.