We had a late start Saturday driving to Louisville for the concert. (We had to make a sudden visit to the vet for the dog's bordatella shot before we could pop Mac into his luxury cabana).
I enjoyed the five hour drive, but I found I noticed every dead patch of grass along the highway. "Well, that's odd," I thought, "Usually I'm not so struck by the dead scenery." And, I just felt off.
Because of the bordatella delay, we couldn't make it to the Lebowski Fest. Instead, we went right to the hotel where, sadly, they did NOT have a guest register, so I could NOT sign in as Spunky L. S_______.
As we waited for the concert, I was amazed to find Louisville hotter and more humid than Saint Louis. I was not sweaty 'til I came to Louisville. At one point the humidity knocked me back on my ass while I slowly grabbed for Gary's arm. I was off, and my balance was off.
The concert started, and I just felt more and more off. It was like the dead grass in the scenery -- I heard all the fun and the music and the banter, but my ears kept being drawn to the sadness in the lyrics. Then, of course, my life achieved its pinnacle and Gary and I agreed the trip was entirely worthwhile.
Later that night Gary coughed, and I thought, "Oh, that's why I'm off, Gary's got a cold and I'm catching it." Gary claimed to have bordatella, though.
Sunday was spent driving past dead grass in the median, visiting a cave to be featured later, and driving past more and more dead grass. Dead median grass and dead gray barns.
It all made sense, though, Monday morning when I went to the dentist. We talked about my new habit of clenching my teeth at night. I asked why, and she said, "Stress."
"No, I'm really not a very stressed person." Except when people are chipping at my teeth. She got out the nitrous, put on the mask and said, "Just relax and breathe."
"You don't deserve to breathe," said the Voice in my head.
I was surprised to hear the long-lost voice coming out of the blue like that. It's been ten years since it woke me up every night at three to tell me I didn't deserve to be asleep, then took over my every waking thought. Still I connected the dots, the Voice with the recent Crabgrass-o-Vision, and knew what I should do.
"But I don't want to," I thought, "I don't want to up my medication. I'll just medicate myself with some of this nice nitrous oxide while I review my options." I thought about drinking, since that's an option I didn't try ten years ago. Then I thought about drugs, and then I stopped, because then why not just take the legal drugs I have? Therapy? I can't imagine going to therapy and having therapy adjust the serotonin in my brain.
So, about the time I decided to try exercise and eating right and Scientology, the cleaning was over. I got the all clear to sit up. I was prepared for a comment from the hygienist like, "So, I couldn't help but notice you've been crying this whole time," then I realized I'd been wearing some protective dark glasses they gave me. I didn't give up those glasses till the last minute. Still my eyes prompted an "Oh my GOD" from the hygienist. "What's wrong?"
"Oh, the Voice in my head is talking to me again."
Yes. Yes. Yes I said that. It seemed to be the only explanation at the time.
So, I'm going to pay close attention for the next week to see if the grass greens up, and if exercise and a diet of vegetables and vitamins doesn't hush up the Voice, I suppose I'll have to do what I'[m supposed to do.
I just don't wanna.