It was too loud.
Everything's been too loud.
But today I'm sitting in my office and I don't think anyone knows I'm here because I've just been at my computer, reading a new blog that I'm obsessed with. And I won't tell you what it is because I'm stalking and I want to stalk quietly. Shhhh.
I want everything to be quieter. I don't want to cry in Sam's arms again, like I did last night. I mean, some day I will again, I'm sure. But it's such a bummer for him to have a sad, slumpy wife.
I hate sad, slumpy wives. Me, I mean. That me.
I thought I was this person, this poet, this happy person who sang songs to her cats and danced around her house in the mornings and had oodles of wonderful people in her life and liked to run and learn stuff and eat pretty food.
So I keep feeling like she's coming back. The other day I walked up the stairs to my office and I actually felt good and happy and energetic and useful to my students and it made me realize how much I DIDN'T feel that way when I got here--how loud and dark and heavy everything was, how hard. I don't think people who are depressed think they're really depressed. I don't, didn't; never believed it. But now, looking back on it, damn. That wasn't normal. That wasn't me.
Which is why even the littlest hint of panic/sadness can send me into a real dither these days--because I'm afraid of spinning down and into it again. And I like it here, up here where it's sunny and quieter.
I'm realizing I live in Boston. Boston, for crying out loud. And there's stuff here to see and think and do. I want to make a friend and go out to lunch with said friend. And maybe we'll buy a book or something pretty and she'll say something about husbands or God or Nebraska, and I'll say something back, and it will make both of us laugh very hard. Friends that I already have, won't you come visit?
In June, in Paris, I'm going here, the ballet: