varying dynamics

I wonder how much you ever really "get over" a bad experience.

Regular readers, and anyone with the intestinal fortitude to delve into my archives, will recall what a mess I made of myself last year. Even at the time, I suspected that I was on a fast track to chronic anxiety or PTSD; the night terrors, panic-edged anomie, and "The Wretched" on repeat washed down with inexhaustible-yet-insufficient vodka shots hardly seemed to help.

But then I transferred schools, the plan on which I'd staked everything. And aside the unfortunate stress of my husband's telecommuting situation (telecommuting apparently sucks for any human being, but for someone as singlemindedly workaholic as my husband, it's doubly hellish), things are working out here. The apartment is clean, the car runs, the laptop is holding up. I've made my peace with the old school, routinely instant-message with old friends there, and remain completely satisfied with my adoptive degree-granting institution.

So you'd think that I'd have wiped my feet and left the crap behind.

I may have. It's tough to tell. You can never quite examine yourself to the extent that others can; your own behavior will, most of the time, seem perfectly normal to you since you're the one doing it. But I have noticed this: lately people approach me not with a "hey, what's up" but rather a "hey, everything OK?" as though something on my face suggested it wasn't. My closet-cleanouts have cut deep into the quick of my wardrobe, and yet it feels borderline manic the way I keep needing to get rid of more stuff, more, more. I go shopping and find myself not wanting to buy anything because that would require taking it home and having it, when what I really want is to pare down.

And every so often, even on a clear and sunny afternoon like this one, I'll switch off entirely.

I came home hoping to get some work done, outline, maybe make some progress on my as-yet-unwritten paper (which has now officially missed the law review deadline for this year's volume), at least read Evidence for tomorrow. Instead, I found myself in an apathetic swoon in front of the flickery monitor, reading Television Without Pity synopses of old episodes of Charmed, a show I've seen a grand total of twice and about which I could truly care less. Nothing in the CD jukebox hit the spot, not even the big guns. I mixed myself a tonic involving tequila and blood orange juice, which may or may not have dulled my dullness any further. Then I told myself I should blog about something. Voilà.

Off days suck.

thus spake /jca @ April 1, 2004 10:09 PM