This tin can living is for the birds. Or sardines. Today, I hate it. I can’t figure out how to put things away so everything is a disaster. I can’t do one thing, because I have a dozen things laying around waiting for a place to BE. I’m still deciding what stays and what goes, and what I might store. The van is STILL packed entirely full too. I’m filled with despair…and frustration.
Part of me says forget it, either throw it all away or store it all. The other part of me says forget it, put ME into storage, like a cocoon, and I’ll re emerge when life makes sense. Maybe my shoulder will heal and all of this won’t seem so incredibly impossible. I can’t even mount a damned paper towel rack, because I can’t manage the screws and screwdriver.
Then the sane part of me, which is nearly dormant this week, and its only MONDAY…says you should meditate. I informed it I was more likely in need of medicate than meditate and did you know that your sane side does not have humor about such things?
Yes, I have entire internal conversations between my various facets of character. No, I don’t think I’m crazy, we all have multifaceted characters, and I let mine speak up. I found it was a good idea if all of my facets could voice their opinions about everything and anything. Does that make me schizophrenic? My sane side says probably, while all of the others just tell her she’s the only crazy character facet in the mix. In any case, crazy sounds real good right now. I don’t even care what color pill I would get, just a month residing in a hospital and not having to face this disaster would be a reprieve. The big problem is that you apparently have to have secret plans to harm yourself or others…and then tell the hospital personnel you have a secret plan, which says to me…only STUPID crazy people ever go to the hospital, since logic informs me that a secret plan would have to remain a secret to be a secret plan.
I have no idea why I’m so aggravated and frustrated today, but I’m going to blame it on GM. For some unknown reason, he would remain sound asleep, choosing to take his half of the bed out of the center, incapable of waking up enough to roll over when I’d try to return to bed. Then, after finally getting him to heave over a bit, I’d squeeze myself in the narrow slot he left me between him and the closet, only to bang my arm so I could whimper from the pain shooting up through my shoulder. Then, he’d wake up enough to tell me I should go take some pain medicine. At that point, I was pretty sure that if I moved again and lost my precarious piece of real estate on the bed, I was not going to be the only one needing pain medicine. I can’t find very many things, but I had found the hammer…just no place to PUT the hammer yet.
It’s a good thing I love him and that he loves me too. Tincanitis is a new disease, but it is running rampant in our neighborhood right now. Not enough space for moving, working, eating, or just being. The dinette has become my personal desk, forget eating at it. I haven’t gotten the table in for his work space yet, so he’s relocated out of the trailer (lucky dog, right?)
Speaking of dogs, if Red suddenly gets an urge to scratch (it is flea season in the south, and not even Frontline is controlling them enough for her comfort right now.) the entire trailer rocks like we’re having a 3.2 earthquake. GM rolls over in bed, and it’s a 4.7. His snoring can produce 2.1 earthquakes.
I know I’m guilty of being a pack rat, but it is not easy to move from normal life to RV life. We are too bookish, craftish, toolish, and pettish. At this point, I’m thinking I should have my head examined, but there is no room left in it either for anyone to poke around.