I'll Be Ok

Shock is a funny thing.

I hear it's protective, and I can understand that, but right now everything's still in a bubble.  And even saying that doesn't quite make sense.

Typing is difficult.  My fingertips feel weird.  That's not the shock, that's the playa... what it does to your skin... your hands especially.  Although I seem to have taken better care of my hands and feet this year than ever before.

I'm not sure I'll ever make it back.  To Black Rock City, that is.  They say "don't divorce your parakeet" after returning from the event, and I won't.  Won't make any decisions.  Don't even need to, really, for a while.  Or ever.  But I don't feel, right now, that I can ever do that drive again.  And that's probably the shock.  Or what I went through.  Or both.  Or all.  I'm just trying to keep it together here.  To gather the parts of me that scattered or hid or are still floating in the bubble of survival mode.  I feel like I can almost poke the edges of the bubble I'm in right now.  Surreal as that sounds.  Today will be the first day I make it out of my house since I arrived back home some time after 1 am Friday night.

I'm ok.  I said that the other day.  I'm ok.  Physically all in one piece.  Things are just things and can be recovered or replaced... I don't care.  The money I care about, but that will sort itself out.  Or not.  With time.

I, uh, have very little cleaning and unpacking to do.  Having come home with two bags, a carry on and a purse.  On an airplane.  Having left in a van.  With all my stuff.

I miss the scissors I bought.  And the blanket Jason gave me.

I forgot my computer was dying until I got home.  More money.  Mo money... said the rapper that lives inside the strange space that is the vastness of my mind.

I'm ok.  Shaken.  Not stirred.  (Slightly hysterical laugh from someone in the crowd at that one... crickets from the rest.)

I want preztels.  The gluten kind.  Food fixes nothing, but comfort helps.

I was away for 15 days.  I'm convinced this was three weeks although the math says otherwise.  Three weeks equals 15 days, just so you know.  Maybe it's because the month changed while I was away.

"I need to process."  I hear that when people say it but I really do need to process.  It's like the old school printer has all jammed up and needs someone to come sort out the paper and feed it through again carefully and line up all those holes on the side of the paper that you'd then tear off, remember?

Jason saved everything.  All the days.  For me.  I don't know what to think about that except the gratitude I have doesn't feel like enough.  I hope he never felt helpless.  I think I would have had I been in his position.

I don't know how we did this kind of thing before cell phones and GPSes and wifi and instant connectivity.  Maybe a solo road trip wasn't such a good idea after all.

You know how sometimes you have to open something that's been under pressure and you have to do it very very slowly, a bit at a time so all the fshhhhhhhhh leaks out in small, measured doses?  That's me.  That's my brain.  My feelings.  My coping with and dealing with and processing this.

I asked the Universe Friday night to please stop pushing my buttons.  I am all button-pushed out.  I'm learning, and growing, but please... no more pushing of the buttons.  Comfort zone effectively destroyed.  Pushed out of.  Trialed by fire.

Whoever said "feel the fear and do it anyway" can bite me.

I might marry whoever invented air conditioning.

I should vacuum.