"You know I have to process verbally," I reminded him. "I have to unload some of the detritus that is clogging up my brain." He sighed with understanding, head on the pillow, staring straight up at the ceiling while I proceeded to impale him with worries, anxieties, deep-set fears, and unnecessary minutia.
At some point he fell asleep, perhaps lulled by my soothing and comforting words of low-grade hysteria. Since I wasn't actually mad at him, I didn't have it in me to jab an elbow into his ribs and proceed to flop and huff in martyrdom. Standard procedure. You know the drill.
So I was left alone with my noisy brain, swirling in thought-tornadoes, mocking my attempt to demand order. The digital clock read "00:23." Blast it. Why can't it just say "12:23." Stupid 24-hour clock. Stupid France making me remember that when someone says "dix-sept heure quarante-cinq" it is 17h45, which is really just 5:45pm. Stupid brain for taking so long to be able to mentally translate and constantly leaving me standing like an addled fluff head.
I didn't know what to do next. I had some really good indignation whipped up, but I was definitely too lazy to leave bed. My feet were warm and all.
So I grabbed some paper and a pen. Scratch that. A pen was next to me, but I spied the pad of paper just out of my reach. Naturally, I entered into some I-still-won't-leave-the-bed acrobatics and hand-walked myself three-feet across the floor, bum high in the air, and did a twisty-lunge that should only be attempted by people at least 15 years younger than myself. But I got the paper. And my feet stayed warm under the covers.
I look to my left. Pops slept through all of that? Pfft.
Armed with paper, pen, a crick in my back and my fiery vexation, I set to work on what I do so very well:
Make a list.
And did I ever make a list. A list of every. single. thing that was flapping about in my beautiful mind-palace/thought-tornado. It didn't matter how big (Children's well-being at school), or how small (Find out the name of that cheese that was so good), or how worthy (Prioritize quiet-time and prayer), or how unpalatable (Call for plumber again because the septic system still wafts the perfume of eau d'rotting-vegetable-baby-diaper-soured-garbage-decomposing-poop-sludge).
And can I just say? I was awesome at it. I filled up a page before the clock could blink stupid 00:30-o'clock at me. I was on fire. I wrote and wrote and listed and wrote ... until I ran out of crazy and realized I was bored ... and started looking at Pinterest on my phone.
I looked to my right. Stupid 00:56 o'clock.
And I went to sleep ...
I woke up this morning and the list was still there. And I was still concerned about all the things on my list. And am still in a-swirl about how I am going to manage everything. But I spit in the eye of my thought-storm by making it submit to my lists. Somehow, having all of my crazy on paper makes me feel like I don't have to keep it afloat in my brain. Anyone else like this?
I think I have crossed off 3 things from my list of 427,000 today. And our bathroom still smells like poop. And I prayed some, but not enough this morning. And the children are still on vacation and seem well-enough right now. And I still don't know the name of that cheese.
And that is my day today. And it's okay. And I plan on watching Downton Abbey tonight, eating chocolate, complaining that I ate too much chocolate ... and then going right to sleep. (At 22h30
Love, Bises, and one more Pfft. For good measure.