It starts in my fingertips and my feet. I flex them, crack my ankles, stretch my fingers as far as I can until it hurts a little. It works up to my calves, forearms, knees, elbows, shoulders, hips... In and in until I can feel it beating around frantically behind my ribcage. I can feel it in my teeth, too. I have this fierce need to grind and bite and it's not enough. The feeling won't dissipate until I've DONE something. And then my mind shuffles like a slot machine, desperately trying to find that particular cure.
Pull your hair
Pop bubble wrap
Clean something
Scratch at something
Brush teeth vigorously
Curl up in a ball and pull everything close until it passes
My brain picks one, for no sensible reason, and fixates on it. The idea pulses in my brain, and even if I don't want to do it, the energy in my body won't stop, and my brain tells me it won't ever stop until I give in. It's so easy. Just give in.
Just one hair, I tell myself, and it'll be okay. I'll be able to breathe a little. My fingers search my scalp for the one hair that will satisfy the most - scraggly, coarse, unworthy of my head. I pull at the root. My fingers tell me there were more like it in there. Just two or three more right in that neighborhood. The weird energy kicks up higher. I pull again in the same place. That wasn't it... there are more... My jaw tightens, toes flex, whole body contorts trying to release the ants running through my veins. Nothing nothing nothing works. And while I'm pulling or popping or scrubbing, I hate myself and this weakness. For whole minutes there are two JoBivs, one coaxing the other as though she's pointing a gun menacingly.
JoBiv 1: It's just chemicals, JoBiv. It's not your fault. It's stupid to hate yourself
JoBiv 2: I know it's stupid, and that's even worse. Am I stupid about this by choice? Oh I am a low, low being.
JoBiv 1: You are not. Settle the hell down. Put down the fucking sponge and breathe, fer goddsakes.
JoBiv 2: Well maybe I LIKE being this way, eh? Maybe it gives me a reason to be upset, instead of always wondering why I feel like crap. THIS is why; because I'm out of control.
JoBiv 1: All of that is allowed, Jo Mary. Take a breath.
JoBiv 2: Fuck you! I won't ALLOW anything, goddammit! Allowing means caving in, and I should be stronger than that. It has to be in me to be stronger.
JoBiv 1: Is there a rulebook or something? Where did you even GET this shit?
JoBiv 2: Waaaaaaaah... Oh god, I'm out of control AND I'm a big fucking crybaby! I hate myself!
(The cycle continues)
*****
On a somewhat lighter, but related, note:
The Baby Mama had three hours free today and decided to go grocery shopping. She bought four of everything Gerber sells for Stage 2 babies; i.e. Bananas, Carrots, Sweet Corn with Sweet Potatoes, Apples with Blueberries -- exciting stuff. As I knew she was in a hurry to get the groceries put away and get back to South Boston, I made myself busy putting ice cream sandwiches and frozen blintzes away. After putting most of the other groceries, including the baby food, on shelves and in cabinets, the Baby Mama excused herself to pump before heading out.
Cut to the same kitchen scene, ten minutes later. JoBiv is on her knees in front of the canned food shelves. The baby food has been grouped by type, then arranged in rainbow order, from Carrots to Pears with Prunes.
"Wow. You organized it all."
"Umm... yep."
"Well that will be helpful."
"Yeah, I thought it would be nice to be able to see what's there instead of searching around."
"Definitely. Wow. Umm... thanks, Jo. You didn't have to do that."
Oh, but I DID.
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