A Healing Explosion

There is a co-worker who attends a church that, every so often, stretches a large, long yellow banner with excited lettering stating that there is going to be a “Healing Explosion!” on Friday. Dirty mind that I have, I figure we should just slap an Asian “massage” parlor next to it and just let it fly. Le petit mort, my friends. It’s funnier because it’s a church and I have to wonder if they even ever consider that their sign can be misconstrued. Or, maybe I just have this problem because I’m a woman and we’re all carrying the mitochondrial DNA of original sin.

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Insomnia is a wretched thing. My brain has no respect for EST and prefers to behave as though it, and the body it is immersed in, are part of a separate and unique timezone. I’ve gotten to the point where I frequently have to take a sleep aid because my brain keeps going on and on about stuff:

We need to switch the clothes over into the dryer. We could do that now. It’s a bit noisy and there’s always the morning, but we could still do it now. Maybe we should do it now. Should we do it now? No?

What if we put the dishes out and loaded the dishwasher up with the dirty dishes? It is a little noisy, as well, and I know you don’t really feel like doing it, but it would be something to do. Just a thought.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure I just heard the baby stirring, so there’s really no need to try to sleep right now, so, we’ll just wait here on tenterhooks to see if she goes back to sleep by herself. That’s fun stuff, right? It’s like a suspense movie, if you think about it. Those always end well.

Tomorrow’s Thursday, and let’s be honest, it’s not like work is hard. You’ve already set out your clothes so there’s no need to be scowling like that. You can just drink a lot of black coffee and fix years worth of mistakes while listening to music on your phone. As long as you remember your extra battery charger. Which you’ll probably forget.

That dog is out in the hallway again. He keeps clicking up and down through the kitchen and then sighing next to the back door. Why couldn’t I have fallen in love with a man who had super-well-trained dogs who would rescue you or bring you a beer from the fridge? Better yet, why couldn’t I have fallen in love with a man who also liked cats and wasn’t allergic to my favorite pet-type animal? This is karma, isn’t it? I had to pay somehow.

Now it’s 12:22 am and you’re still up and typing. Are you feeling accomplished? What is your prize? Is it sleep? Preferably with no nightmares or pseudo-bad dreams. You know, those kind you wake up from where you want to say you had a nightmare, but really there wasn’t even anything scary in it? Like the time when no one would listen to you about what direction you should turn in the car?

Being crazy is hard when you have a family that you’re one of the adult members of, because at any given moment someone could/will be coming to find you to aid them with something. When I was a teenager, and up through my twenties, except for the years I spent dating Claire, whenever I’d feel crazy and refused to take any medication or drugs or herbal remedies or talk therapy, I used to just lay on the floor. I would just lay on the floor while whatever the hell was wrong with me at the time ran screaming around inside my head, until finally the carpet and ceiling and walls would have become enough to contain me, so I could get up and proceed along my merry way. Sometimes, this happened for hours.



Walk into the jaws of hell, anytime.

Here’s a lullaby for you:

– S.L.


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