No tricks for me

By the time I get out of bed most Saturday’s the house has all those sounds of life people would expect.  Some pans being tossed around the kitchen, feet crossing older wooden floors that creak in just the same spots, and most importantly laughter.  It’s not so loud that it takes over everything else, but for me it’s the magnet that draws me out like some coffee commercial.  This morning is a little different.  Silence.

Last night was just another in a long line of evenings where my temperature rose enough to make me uncomfortable and that worried people.  By the time I crawled into bed myself, promises of quiet for today were made and plans for a different routine were discussed.  No one was assembling at Grandma’s, they’d go elsewhere to allow me some rest.  My body might agree with that desire, but my mind doesn’t want to play along.  So dry toast and I are sitting at the counter hoping that the noise returns.

I don’t mind the alone time when it’s absolutely necessary, but routine is as important as any other thing in my life.  Your mind plotted out how you were going to be, but that right turn came up quicker than you thought.  That stupid Depression that even the pills are having a difficult time keeping in check wants to come out and play today.  I told a doctor once that I sometimes hear it in my head with the voice from the computer used in “Wars Games”.  That synthesized “Do you want to play a game?”  coming over and over again.  Sometimes I can laugh it off, other times we say I selected that sound bite from my life because it is a lesson on co-operation and competitive balance.  Tic-Tac-Toe being a basic game used in my economic studies over the years.  Just play for the tie, Lary!

The memories of my recent history are colliding with the ghosts of the past.  There are times when my mind can see Patre sitting at the end of the counter doing her homework.  Asking if I wanted something to drink before we tried to find some couch space to sneak in a movie before my parents came to pick me up.  The life of a 15 year old still on their calendar.  But at the same time I see those same memories replaced by the idea of my daughter doing the same routine.  Rushing home from school and then curling up on the couch to watch tv.

One of the horrible things about having people poking around your head, both with scalpels and with words; is that you sometimes have to relive the past in order to figure out where you are right now.  The confusion when waking up from surgery made so much worse when my stupid brain implies that people not present are sitting in the chair waiting for me to open my eyes.  Details that get screwed up because my seemingly efficient recording device has decided to hit pause or rewind at random times.  Think about a CD skipping back and forth before you give it a bump or just go to the next track, that’s a reasonable description.

So while the people in my life are doing their absolute best to make sure I get rest and help, my scum bag brain wants to remind me of what a Saturday morning used to mean in a different time and different place.  No longer sneaking out of bed with a kiss to someone’s forehead before I go for a run.  The best I do here is get out of bed without falling back in.  Those meals I used to plan are now just requiring some of my input, not my effort.  Sure there are times when I do the cooking, no one is trying to take that away; it’s just different looking at life-long friends rather than my ex or daughter.

I probably should just call someone and let them know I’d love to join them, but my fingers aren’t going to dial the phone.  Today feels like it’s going to be another one of the forced walks down the recesses of my mind and that isn’t something I want them to endure.  Kathy and my mother have joked for years about how they know just by looking in my eyes, that damn mother’s intuition?  Maybe the best thing is to just embrace the pain today, admit it is happening, and let it happen.  Let the shaking start until I either wear myself down or that hand ends up holding mine while I take this odd path.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Trick Questions.”

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