Wednesday, January 06, 2016

Graveyard shift

I awoke as the others left and got up. I entered the shed and, to dismiss useless thoughts, got stuck into Freecell and NPR.

I used to listen to NPR and WTF podcasts in the shit box, the old white car that used to be our proper car but which was lawfully taken off road then eventually given to a wreckers that gave some money to Lifeline.

But I stopped the habit when the second car died of listening to both since I was either on the bus—where I prefer to sit in silence—or sharing a ride in the car.

So it's been joyous to re-engage with the soothing tones of NPR broadcasters and delve into the depths of Maron—who I got to see live late last year in Sydney and for me was a peak experience of the year.

Near midday, and having done nothing but play cards and listen to podcasts, I was wretched tired. I recognised it was anxiety's work—with fatigue in the days after an extreme event typical—and took myself to bed. I lay in the dim room, iPhone blaring a combo of surf, rain and wind noise, for hours drifting in and out of a fuddled sleep. 

I awoke mid-afternoon then after much procrastination forced myself on top of the exercise bike. My right knee was dragging, and my hip in pain, so I committed myself to just doing at least five kays. 

I still did the full twenty. 

Why? Because even though I had anxiety sleep and leg pain I'm like Kimmy Schmidt—who as a bunker trapped prisoner was forced to turn a "mystery" crank for hours at a time. Like her, if I can get through the next ten seconds then I can get through then next ten seconds after that.

And, fuck me, I did.


UPDATE: I had the same experience the next day. I woke, played e-cards and listened to NPR then, overcome with fatigue, crawled back into bed. It took until well beyond 3 pm before I could urge myself aboard SoTPC. But this patch of black is just now, it's not forever.

Double s'cret probation WFTW.

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