all my tears have been used up on another love

When it comes to the reentry to real life (the city, the job, the writing, etc), my heart is not having it. I never use italics on the blog, so the fact that I've used them twice in the past two days should be taken with the utmost gravity and seriousness. I'm usually snapped back in to my routine by now, but today was a rather brutal reminder that I'm neither snapped in nor particularly enthusiastic about forcing myself to snap in. My Puritan ancestors would be v. disappointed in me, I'm sure. But then, they were disappointed in me long ago, when I started wearing fuchsia and decided not to have a baby at seventeen. Oops.

Sooo...I don't know what else to say. I worked from home this morning, which was fine, and then I went to Palo Alto to train with Alyssa. Her sympathetic ear was the start of my meltdown, actually; I had done a good job the past few days of spackling over my discontent, but our conversation (and a lot of kettlebell swings) washed all of that away and dumped me back at square one. It would all be so much easier if I weren't an overachieving perfectionist who felt the need to write a million books while also having a kickass career while also having deep and meaningful relationships while also eating healthily while also trying to sleep eight hours a night. But if I weren't so driven, I wouldn't be where I am, and I've been more satisfied this past year than I've ever been, despite my occasional bellyaching (that's a Regency romance word for 'complaining', sorry).

So, conundrum. I left training feeling like I'd hit myself over the head (hard to do with a kettlebell), so I took an inordinate amount of time showering and getting ready to go to the office. Once there, I did some work, but not a million things, and I left at five so that I could get home at a somewhat reasonable hour. I'm under strict orders from Alyssa to chill the fuck out (my words, not hers), but I don't know how to do that. So I went to Des Amis, where I feel safe and loved, and I wrote in my journal and read a book and drank wine for something close to three hours. Maybe it helped...and maybe it didn't. But it wasn't work, so I suppose it's a victory.

And now, I'm going to go to sleep and pray that all of this passes and that I wake up in the morning either a) able to see a way that I could take several days off off from everything or b) recovered from this nightmare in which I'm even contemplating taking time off or c) have forgotten that any of this ever happened. It will all come out all right in the end, of course, and I really am mostly happy with what I've accomplished...but then I get into accomplishment again, when I think I would be better off talking about happiness. Stupid Puritan DNA. I must sleep and dream of this (and hopefully I do dream of this, since last night I was dreaming of blood and broken glass) - goodnight!