So husband is going on tour this weekend, starting Saturday, for ten days. At first, I was excited about the extended alone time (so many uninterrupted craft hours!), but a few days later it started to dawn on me that I haven't been in this situation in a very long time. I seem to have forgotten the horror that is me when I am alone for several days.
I have pretty severe anxiety issues, compounded by trying to quit smoking, and due to this my brain seems to be on permanent misfire. When I start to freak out, husband is always there to give me a tight hug and sweetly tell me to "man up". I go to sleep at night comforted by the fact that he will probably wake up and get us to safety if the house decides to spontaneously combust, which I am just certain it will. Even with him gone, however, I think I will be able to get through all that on my own. I also have fairly extreme manic episodes too, though, and that's where things take a turn for the crazy.
Thinking back on it, the last real alone time I had was sometime back in my freshman year of college. I was already all off kilter because of moving several states away and not knowing anyone. I did finally start to settle in at about two months, and that's when my roommate decided to visit home for a few days. I had the whole dorm room to myself (which was fairly large, they were all converted hotel rooms), and I started to get super psyched about all the things I could do. I mean, I could just pretend I was actually an adult and living in my own apartment (as an aside, I don't know why anyone would fantasize about that - being an adult sucks, and your apartment is probably going to be a falling down piece of shit). Things were pretty great (having ALL the soda in the fridge be mine for a weekend!), until I tried to go to sleep.
My body was not having any of it. I was so damn wired I could barely close my eyes. It was like a little kid on Christmas eve, except all that was waiting in the morning was a stupid project I didn't want to finish. After about 3 hours of this, I decided to just get up. It was two in the morning. This was the beginning of my epic not-sleeping-for-three-days thing.
I could not sleep. I couldn't calm down at all, for that matter. I have never done cocaine, but I think I understand what it feels like just from that weekend, as my body seemed to be producing it on its own. I worked out a ton, both trying to make myself tired and making sure I used ALL the extra room I had (I was king!). I walked to the gas station a few blocks away at four in the morning, even though it was Savannah and the dorm was pretty much in the projects. I made endless amounts of the worst art, clothing, and jewelry ever which I thought was ABSOLUTELY AWESOME at the time. Granted, I seemed to think that about everything at that time. I was a workhorse ball of energy ready to punch the world into submission.
At about the middle of the third day, I started to finally relax. Which meant I lost all track of time, looked like a massive junkie from lack of sleep, and was incredibly sore from constantly moving. When my roommate came back, I was sure I eloquently asked her how her weekend was, how her family was, and if her drive was okay. To her, I'm sure it just sounded like a bunch of random words tenuously strung together before I passed out in a pile of glitter and magazine clippings on the floor.
Obviously, because I'm in my 20s I'm sure I've matured past that stage (just as I'm sure I know pretty much everything there is to know about anything), but it should be interesting to see how this goes. And if it ends poorly, at least you guys can look forward to many, many pictures of cat and dog dressed up in the awful clothes that I will be producing endlessly.
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