Probably, it's the unremitting snow, the dead of winter with February still to endure, and another year to add to my collection at the end of it, but I am very low on real hope. Slow at work, a general sense of low water - frozen hard. Itchiness. D having to be in the hospital twice in two weeks, and now the slog of physical therapy. Problems to be solved that cannot even be addressed now. The lull after crisis - my weakest stress point.
Gimme blood and crashing, agony and tears, danger and trauma, and I'm all over it, calm and efficient. Let the wave wash past, and I stand in the shallows and dissolve. Not that I need drama to be happy, quite the opposite, I love when all is spinning along nicely - oh yes indeed. But when the bad stuff hits, the waning aftermath pulls the rug out from under my sprung feet.
D tells me "It's going to be alright." Which is what he said all through nursing school, when we hoped to have a few dollars left after bills, and every other period of existential angst, and he is right. We will be alright, always have been. I have come to trust this, even if I still feel fairly awful. It's not alright now, but it will be, it will be.
He played his guitar a little yesterday, and now has six fingers to type with. And he tells me it's going to be alright.