I woke up an anxiety bubble. I had gone to sleep an anxiety bubble, had laborious dreams throughout the night, and felt the worse for it upon waking. I have an unceasing inner monologue going on these days about boy. It continues even while I’m asleep.
Sometimes, my dreams about boy feel helpful. Sometimes, they feel tormenting. Last night’s dream was more along the lines of helpful. I was transferred to a parallel universe in which I got to go back to the beginning of our relationship. I was fearlessly open and loving toward this parallel universe version of him; essentially able to act upon all of the things I have ever regretted not doing or saying. The only catch was that I knew I would have to go back to the universe where things were not ok between us, and that I would have to let go of everything by some Cinderella midnight deadline, and I could not tell parallel universe boy. I was resolute to experience every possible moment of bliss. I gave of myself completely, and then went back.
Letting go. A ubiquitous theme.
So, I woke exhausted and anxious. I went to the living room, did 12 sun salutations, meditated, ate breakfast.
Now’s a time of hunkering down and bearing it. No amount of “figuring things out” is going to ease the pain of losing my lover and friend. My grief is raw and on the surface. Best thing to do, as far as I can tell, is keep on doing.
Post-work and dinner and winding down.
I have a crush on one of the kids I’m working with—an eleven-year-old savant with autism. I also have a crush on the baby that kept giggling on the bus. I also have a crush on the little old Asian ladies with their grocery bags and hair up in buns. I could go on and on about interesting bus people. Maybe tomorrow.