PlazaJen: Passion Knit

One of the downsides of "recovering", as I can't think of a different, more elaborate word for it, is that it takes a shitton of energy. As in, by 3:00 each day, my eyelids are hanging heavy, and by the time I get home, I not only feel like I've been jetting around the world, my face looks like I've been dancing at an all-eighties discotheque and I just had to have that last shot of Jager & gyrate to one last rockin' song by the Hooters. I actually accused JWo of slipping me a mickey tonight.

When you make an insurance claim, you have to fill out a big spreadsheet with a list of everything you lost, with age of item, how much you paid, blah blah blah. Then, your claims agent calls you & you have to read it out loud for posterity and agree, twice, that you have agreed to being tape recorded. I was mortified when, two-thirds of the way through the list, I simply fell apart. Somewhere, in the great Insurance Records of All-Time, my nasal husky voice will remain on some tape, cracking, breaking, and then me crying, because when I got to the lines where our travel wallets were taken, I realized the last time we'd used them was when we went to Jamaica to get married. And now they're gone. They're not inofthemselves sentimental items, granted, but it just was that little proverbial straw, cracking everything under its barely-there weight, and then everything tumbling and rumbling and settling underneath it while I wavered and quavered and regained composure.

I miss my stuff.
I miss my dad.
More than all the stuff times infinity.

I miss my naiveté, the innocence I didn't even know I had, just a few short months ago. But it's like looking at a pair of pants that are torn & ragged and six sizes too small and the zipper's gone and the seams are blown - it's empty regret, a hollow chocolate easter bunny. Wishing you could put the water back into the faucet. As if you could will the leaves to shrink back into their buds. What's done is done, there's nothing to come of missing that innocence except to acknowledge that it's gone, and I must carry my wisdom, my experience with me until it grows more comfortable, and I learn to be less burdened by it.

Sleep, blessed sleep. I know my cells regenerate and repair, knitting themselves new accessories and shoveling out what's no longer needed. May my Remedy Gnomes get to work on my heart and my soul, as I slip into darkness, so my eyes look forward more than they look down or look back.