The last few years of my life have been quiet — alternatively happy and discontent or simultaneously both — but all-in-all quiet, undisturbed by the wanderings of spirit that would often grip me at times when I had the most to be thankful for.
I think I am longer overdue. As I sit here, I am rocking back and forth at the hips like a mad woman with hands red from the blood of her own child.
I had a crisis of identity this weekend. Friday night very late, I started hyperventilating, sitting at attention and gesticulating wildly in my broken ergonomic desk chair, eyes moist. I felt trapped; my house lost all the familiarity and comfort that I'd enjoyed with zordac and all our friends. My whole life felt foreign to me; the last five years stretched out in front of me like a fog I'd been hiding in. Hiding from what? My body weighed on me like a lumpy exoskeleton I wanted to peel off, the real me pink and wriggling inside it.
I wanted to flee. I almost drove to Southaven to spend the night with kesterly just to get out of the house.
My eloquence shattered into jumbled, breathy phrases, I explained it all to zordac, who listened patiently and reminded me that I was in our home with our kittens. Then he fell asleep, right there, on the spare bed in my office. I felt a little relief, but I spent the next night purging and reorganizing our bedroom.
Tonight it strikes again. I lay down for a nap (I want to finish some writing for a client by the morning) and sit up again, panting. I start to wail, not cry, but moan in prolonged notes. I think that if I can match the sound bouncing around in my chest and sing it out then it will leave me. The sound is a cross between a whale's song and the sound a finger makes as it traces the rim of a brandy glass. The pitch hits just right that the sound echoes in my head and vibrates my whole body.
Ten minutes of this, zordac snoring uninterrupted beside me, and I have to get up. I'm pacing. I take all the boxes in my office and shove them to the other side of the room so I don't have to look at them while I type. I'm huffing as I march up and down the hallway, trying to calm down enough to put this into words.
I have so many healthy, good, wonderful things going on in my life and I'm so horrified of destroying them because of this wanderlust. It's not as much of an urge to go somewhere else but rather to let the real me out of this shell. It's not wanderlust but it's definitely lust, but lust for what?
I am desperately in love with a wonderful man, zordac who knows me and encourages me and wants me to be truly happy. I have loyal, fun-loving, thoughtful, intelligent friends with whom I share a rewarding and loving bond. What the hell is wrong with me?
Is this a mid-life crisis at the age of 28? Am I just desperate to feel young again even though in years I am not old? My body feels old, my body sexless sometimes.
I don't have the focus to wrangle this energy and funnel it in the right direction, into writing, into work, into something fruitful and healthy. I think the most "good" that could come of it would be a splotchily clean and organized house or breathlessness on a treadmill (which I would like to buy).
If only I had the clarity and the strength to delay this energy and restlessness so that I might put it to good use. My heart is an open and agitated but there is no one thing that I can channel it to. This whole weekend I've considered if I should start larping again, perhaps NERO Memphis where I have no history. Perhaps the escapism would help me divert this restlessness.
Maybe I should just start painting again.