January’s been a tough place to be in terms of keeping tabs
on my mental health. Matter of fact, I’m pretty sure my head’s visited all of
the beneath-the-couch-cushions corners when it comes to the emotional dinner
plate. With my starches there’s been fatigue. Each bite of protein has had a
dollop of motivation on top of it, and when it’s come to getting those veggies
down, I’ve been every bit of both the refusing child and the adult who knows
better. My head has nodded in agreement to angry, unaffordable appetizers; my
inner glutton has thumbs-upped dessert when there was no room left in my belly.
Google Maps Navigation has been my favorite smart-phone tool
as the new job opens itself up to windshield time, but the more familiar I
become with it, the more of a stranger I become to myself. It’s as though I’m perpetually
shoe shopping, but can’t tell how each pair fits until I’ve left the building,
and then once I’m processing, my foot tells my brain how each shod situation
felt unfamiliar.
Maybe I’m out of shape. Getting back in to therapy would do me some good. Age is not helping, as these weird, dull
flashes of pain have been greeting the inner back of my skull. Perhaps above
everything: Happiness hovers, half attainable, frequently out of reach.
And I have answers for none of it.
