Limbo

I am in limbo. Never mind the particulars, I've told everyone and their dogs the whole chain of circumstances that bind me over and over and over and... well, it feels like that anyway. Nevermind. Chaos, The Hanged Man, the waiting is the hardest part thank you Tom Petty. So what do I do when I have little to do but wait? Well, I procrastinate, of course. Not creative, but stifling. I try to write, mentally pacing a small room, kicking at the wall at each rapid turn.

It's a common experience in the military, as assignments come in, but one doesn't go right away. Short Timers, playing at exaggeration. 'So short I walk under the door and don't stoop,' 'so short I'd sit on a dime and my feet'd dangle.' But I don't know how short I am. And I am not used to giving up my authority for the sake of three hots and a cot. I am used to being the one who makes sure everything gets ready, and as soon as it's time, I make it go. Surgery takes as long as it takes, but the time scale is in minutes, hours, never days, and certainly not weeks or months. Patients may come back over the course of months, but any individual procedure is a matter of less than a day, at most. And now, I am waiting weeks, perhaps months, and I am going loopy. I have been out of the military for ten years, and my life is very different now. My old methods of coping, assuming I had any (did I?) are long gone.

I can likewise wait for busses or trains, but that is also a matter of hours, or minutes if lucky. It is a manageable slice of limbo, even enjoyable if you get your head around it. As long as it is not sleeting, for instance. I am not in any pain, this is not Purgatory- a misery that might at least feel like progress. I am fine where I am, but it is stagnant. My attempts to solve the impasse have made it worse, like struggling in quicksand. I simply have to lay back and think of England. Or New England in my particular case.

I do have work to do, but in limbo, I dither and try to avoid work. I come home early to organize, then leave the cleaning for another day. I neglect to keep contact with friends. I don't exercise or read much. I get a job half done, and then leave it, sitting in the middle of the floor for later. When? Who cares. But I do, and it bugs me, and the half packed boxes sit there.
Maybe tomorrow.


(written before the move to Boston.)