I’m throwing papers in heaps on the floor; shifting part of one heap over to a fresh heap. Then starting a new messy pile that will escalate into an actual heap. Wildly I throw old papers into the trash bag, before clawing through the mess to retrieve the same articles as though I am some deranged crazy old lady. [No comments, please.]
I’m ripping files from out the bottom desk drawer, can’t find the right one. Damn, is the missing file in one of the storage boxes out in the garage? So angry at myself for being wantonly disorganized. Opening files, closing files, opening the same file again by accident, searching and searching for the — shit, damn! What am I searching for? I forget! I am really losing it. Why is it so difficult for me to put things back where I found them? Instead, my life is a constant treasure hunt; no, more likely a Wild Goose Chase. Oh, right, right, right: my assignment is to find our tax documents from last year. Where are they? My brain hurts. And now, I am feeling sorry for myself, so I go downstairs to pop a Klonopin. Wash it down with the wine left over in the kiss-stained glass from last night. I would really prefer a much stronger remedy to my anxiety, but sometimes you just have to make do.
Since I’m in the kitchen, maybe I should empty the dishwasher so I can fill it with this sink of dirty dishes. No, stay on track. This stupid document is crucial. My brain truly feels like it could explode. I always get this way when I can’t locate my keys or my cellphone or my very important tax documents. And then, this vision flashes: the photo of the skulls that I once saw, long ago, in a National Geographic magazine. These ancient skulls had quarter-sized holes drilled in them, perhaps to release the bad spirits that were causing severe headaches or behavioral problems, in much the same way that some modern irrational people, such as myself, would behave 2,000 years into the future. This drilling of holes was called “trepanning”. The point that most impressed me in this article was that several skulls had more than one hole drilled. The logical conclusion was that these primitive doctors must not have killed off all of their patients, and so some of these desperate, agonized clients came back for more.
There are times that I wish someone would drill a hole in my head to let loose the kraken.
But I snap back to attention and run upstairs to grab another file folder. I open this file and oh, my heart! I feel a smile advance across my pinched face as I drift down to the floor, sitting cross-legged and getting too comfortable, because this one file, incorrectly labeled “Banking Shit”, suddenly blooms with years of my kids’ school photos. Look at those beautiful faces, they were such gorgeous babies. Maybe I should finally put these into a photo album. The little boys are now grown men. It’s a mess that begs me to do something about it. I plead with myself: Not now! Focus. Jeez, that’s what gets me into these predicaments. Ping-ponging from one task to another is so exhausting. I just want to find the stupid forms and be done with it. No. I am certain that I can’t do this anymore. I quit. I’ll look for them again tomorrow, when I’m feeling more in control.
A Day in the Life.