This morning I was trying to concentrate on the music pumping through the speakers in spin class but the thoughts in my brain poured through the circuitry like those tickers announcing stock prices: PAIN, PAIN, PAIN, PIANO LESSONS, LUNCH, DOCTOR’S APPOINTMENT, PAIN, CONFERENCE CALL, PAIN, PAIN, DINNER, PAPERWORK, PAIN.
If you invested in pain you can now afford a yacht.
Sometimes the pain manifests itself in an inexplicable upset stomach, sometimes in a loss of appetite. When I know the kids aren’t around I sometimes let it rush over me like it wants to and I’ll sink against a wall, my face hidden in my arm.
Sometimes I’m really aggressive with the car horn.
The more I talk to other people who have lived through something like this the more I learn that the bathroom floor is a common place to lie down when you cry. Why there and not ten steps over on the cushioned bed? Because that’s not poetic, and this kind of pain demands the kind of imagery that starts wars or lights up an entire city.
I was just going to show you a picture of my hair, my increasingly untidy WTF hair, but I thought I’d let you know that today I wanted to find some humor somewhere but it never ran across that ticker. I trust that I will see it soon and want to thank you for being patient while I look up at the ceiling from this bathmat.
