Almost as bad as a bad day of work is reading about somebody else’s. If you can make it funny and I can laugh at your pain, that’s different. If it becomes a form of therapy for you to cut the people up you don’t like (like your boss), that can only entertain for so long.
So I’ve had a bunch of bad days, like a roller coaster of ups and downs and feeling like I’m going to barf and need to get off. Or that I’m going to get thrown off.
The thing that pisses me off is that it saps my creativity. The time goes by fast and that feels good, because it means another week is over, but it’s my life too.
And so my peaceful walks in the early morning or afternoon, when I gather ideas and dream, become mental preparations for future meetings or healing sessions to understand and repair what I think happened in the past.
This morning I realized I was almost home and hadn’t noticed anything on my walk. I passed the horror writer’s house and didn’t look in on him. I cut through the new development as I always do, but there was nothing of interest.
People have bad days at work; people don’t like their jobs. People would love to have a job even if they disliked it, just to earn money. I bitch about granular stuff by comparison, the fact that when I get really unbound I start to chew the skin around my cuticles on the thumbs, as some form of self-soothing.
But it makes for disturbing marks on my hands that serve as a reminder that I’m spilling over with stress. And when I step back and look at what I do, it feels ridiculous. But I can’t get over it.
Yesterday in a meeting a voice said in my head to get up and walk out. It was my meeting. I have more meetings like that today.