Thursday, June 03, 2004
The sunlight coming through the living room window right now is honey golden, rich and porous. It looks like summer. It is summer.
Not yet.
One more week. This time next week, I'll be thrilled and dazed at the prospect of not having to go to school the next morning. Almost done. One more week, and I'm on summer vacation.
This has been the hardest school year of my life. The car accident bissected everything, seeped into everything, reduced me to melancholy zombie headache woman for more than three months, and still haunts me today. It's hard to drive without imagining someone darting in front of me unexpectedly. And there I am, my life ruined. Except, it wasn't ruined. I'm still here. And I've been saying, for months, that there's something beautiful about all this. There is. I just haven't been able to hold it all in my arms yet.
I'm tired. We all are, at school. Everyone has dark circles under her eyes. Everyone walks in talking of too-little sleep. We walk through these honey-colored days with our eyes stuck shut. My body had been improving, steadily, for days and weeks. But these past two weeks, I've gone downhill again. A little. I feel like I'm sliding on my butt.
Yesterday, I had to come home early from school, because I could feel the migraine starting to dart up the back of my neck. Luckily, the seniors had left on their final school trip--and oh, how I will miss them; and oh, how they need to go--so I had no one to teach in the afternoon. I simply slipped out of school and walked slowly to the car, the thumping in my head increasing as I reached Broadway and the gravel parking lot I park in every morning. Driving home, I was nearly blinded by the cramping along my ears, down the neck, the sweat beading up on my forehead. At 2 pm, I crawled into bed, the heating pad on. I never really left. My body insisted--it's time for a day in bed. In a way, it was a welcome relief. After months of dutifully returning home, every day after school, and cutting myself off from the world to recuperate in my bed, alone, I've been bounding around the world. I've been on dates practically every night for weeks. (this another entry, later, when I have the energy.) I've been attending parties and reading on ferrries to visit the island and staying up later than I should. Once again, I have to find the golden mean.
So there I lay in bed, watching the dvds from Netflix that had been languishing on top of my television. Retreating into my silence again, trying to find a respite from the pain. The old headaches, after a liftetime of rarely having them. Now, when the stress creeps up my neck, so does the pain. I have a feeling that I will be haunted by this pain, intermittently, for many years to come.
This morning, I rose, late, feeling better. The ghosts of the migraine darted around my head, but never landed. Putting on my shoes, I felt the creak in my back, still. And with a pang of real sadness, I realized that I have been feeling increasingly better over these past six months, but I haven't felt good yet. I haven't felt good in over six months.
It takes its toll.
And so, the light is fading in this room. My eyes are closing as I write. It's time to sleep and lay everything down upon the floor. I won't carry it into the bed with me. Tonight, I sleep alone.
Not yet.
One more week. This time next week, I'll be thrilled and dazed at the prospect of not having to go to school the next morning. Almost done. One more week, and I'm on summer vacation.
This has been the hardest school year of my life. The car accident bissected everything, seeped into everything, reduced me to melancholy zombie headache woman for more than three months, and still haunts me today. It's hard to drive without imagining someone darting in front of me unexpectedly. And there I am, my life ruined. Except, it wasn't ruined. I'm still here. And I've been saying, for months, that there's something beautiful about all this. There is. I just haven't been able to hold it all in my arms yet.
I'm tired. We all are, at school. Everyone has dark circles under her eyes. Everyone walks in talking of too-little sleep. We walk through these honey-colored days with our eyes stuck shut. My body had been improving, steadily, for days and weeks. But these past two weeks, I've gone downhill again. A little. I feel like I'm sliding on my butt.
Yesterday, I had to come home early from school, because I could feel the migraine starting to dart up the back of my neck. Luckily, the seniors had left on their final school trip--and oh, how I will miss them; and oh, how they need to go--so I had no one to teach in the afternoon. I simply slipped out of school and walked slowly to the car, the thumping in my head increasing as I reached Broadway and the gravel parking lot I park in every morning. Driving home, I was nearly blinded by the cramping along my ears, down the neck, the sweat beading up on my forehead. At 2 pm, I crawled into bed, the heating pad on. I never really left. My body insisted--it's time for a day in bed. In a way, it was a welcome relief. After months of dutifully returning home, every day after school, and cutting myself off from the world to recuperate in my bed, alone, I've been bounding around the world. I've been on dates practically every night for weeks. (this another entry, later, when I have the energy.) I've been attending parties and reading on ferrries to visit the island and staying up later than I should. Once again, I have to find the golden mean.
So there I lay in bed, watching the dvds from Netflix that had been languishing on top of my television. Retreating into my silence again, trying to find a respite from the pain. The old headaches, after a liftetime of rarely having them. Now, when the stress creeps up my neck, so does the pain. I have a feeling that I will be haunted by this pain, intermittently, for many years to come.
This morning, I rose, late, feeling better. The ghosts of the migraine darted around my head, but never landed. Putting on my shoes, I felt the creak in my back, still. And with a pang of real sadness, I realized that I have been feeling increasingly better over these past six months, but I haven't felt good yet. I haven't felt good in over six months.
It takes its toll.
And so, the light is fading in this room. My eyes are closing as I write. It's time to sleep and lay everything down upon the floor. I won't carry it into the bed with me. Tonight, I sleep alone.
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