Friday, December 18, 2015

A puppeteer with the strings cut

I'm dressed in a collarless black long-sleeved shirt and black PJ pants.

I look like a puppeteer with their hood off.

The daily ride was knocked off early but, leaden with fatigue, after I showered and dressed in my puppet clothes I retreated to my room with the blinds closed. I lay on the bed listening to the drone of the white noise from a phone app as I teased at the raised scar weal upon my right cheek with a finger nail.

I lay like that, in the semi-dark, idly picking, for maybe an hour or two or three. I can't tell, it was just a haze of grey while I lay there in black.

Some days that's just how recovery manifests. The need to retreat to a dark, safe space and space out, lost in thought, teasing at a wound, mind and body.

Then the house filled with life and I lifted from my stupor. 

UPDATE: A day later, I lost just an hour. Recovery for the win.

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