Do you ever have one of “those” days? I mean, the once in a year or so day where you’re ready to get the fuck out of bed because of that three hour long nightmare you’ve been having but you want to crawl right back in because you have this overwhelming sense of foreboding, like you know if you dare open the curtains you’ll do so only at the risk of finding the entire neighborhood on fire? Yeah, one of those days. Today. Fuck today. The kind of day whiskey was invented for. The kind of Mondays Homer wrote epic poetry about. The kind of day where you check in with your remaining parent to make sure they’re still around, and wonder why the fuck your e-mail isn’t working half the time.
Funny, Friday started out so good. Went out to drinks with the wife. Came home to watch some tele. Had a wee nip more then went to bed. Felt a bit hung over the next day and some stuff came up between my wife and I so put my thoughts on paper, something I haven’t done for years, and felt a huge weight come off my chest. Yet still, since about a week or so back I’ve been having these long ass nightmares, one night after another, and they’re taking their toll.
The one I was having this morning was of the moving variety. You see, grew up in the same household from 3 to 17, so home was home and home and that house was something my heart, mind, and spirit, could always count on—then from 18 to 28 or so there was no stability in terms of where I lived or if I’d have somewhere that wasn’t an unaffordable shit hole to move next. It left a huge mark on my psyche so for about a decade afterwards I’d have dreams where I’d be moving from one place to the next, or I couldn’t figure out where I lived, or I explored or remembers shitty, terrible, dark, morbid places I had lived in or was moving into (none of which, in the dreams, were accurate representations of actual houses or apartments, but Frankenstein’s monsters of whatever was flubbing around in my mind at the time). I don’t have them much anymore, but when I do they’ve gotten longer and arguably more bizarre. This morning the rooms of these variously dilapidated apartments had me balling my eyes out (something I do in the worst of dreams but can’t seem to manage in the “real” world).
Last week it was the work dreams. You know the ones. The ones where trauma you’ve experienced in your professional life, no matter how long ago, sneaks up the leg of your pants and takes a bite out of your subconscious left buttock. Yep, have had a few of those lately, and I think it’s about time to share one of the main traumatic experiences that trigger those lovely ones. Time to get it off my chest.
But not today. I worked a full, full day. I forced myself out to the gym. I’ve spent sometime writing. Now I just need to flop down somewhere and try to break.
Monday, fucking, Monday.