If I close my eyes, the part of my mind that is adrift will actually impose an undercurrent of motion on my senses. It’s a slight but steady pull. My eyes always pop open before it gets so strong that I’m washed away. But I’m tired, you know. Bone tired. And when I’m too tired to lift my eyelids again, I half-expect I will be taken out to sea.
It must be the rain.
Anyway, if you thought I was in a jovial mood this morning, you shoulda been around this afternoon! Murphy has a bone to pick with me. I don’t know what I did to anger him so, but it was a doozy. I don’t think he’s done with me yet, either.
But that’s not what’s on my mind. I mean, yes, it’s on my mind every single nanosecond, but that’s not what I want to tell you about.
I have friends that I don’t deserve. I love each and every one of them and wonder if they know that I would be lost without them.
I love the friends who answered my distress call with a barrage of emails designed to buoy me and stop my self-torture.
I love the friend who listened to me cry into my phone as I sat huddled in my car, trying to pull myself together before I got the kids. I love that she lectured me about the ulcer I’m working on, and how mean ulcer-creating people suck.
I love the friend who came to get me out of the car, who held me while I stood there and bawled until my chest hurt. I love that she kept trying to feed me until I told her I was afraid that if I ate I would puke. I love that then she said if I did, the dog would clean it up.
I love the friend who just sat with me and held my hand, and then chatted with me about this and that and didn’t mind that I mostly just nodded. I love that she laughed when I suggested we drown one of my kids in the pool, just to see if it was possible that I could feel worse.
I love the friend who hugged me in the middle of a crowd, and made me look her in the eyes so that she could tell me I’ll be okay. I love that she called me later to tell me again. I love that she understands that I don’t know it yet.
I love the friends who are reaching across to me however they can, to tell me I’m allowed to feel. That they’re sorry I feel this way, but I’m allowed.