Everything is fine but I am having a hard time convincing my mind of that--my mind, where things that don't exist seem to matter.
My thoughts keep circling around a few choice incidents: like how, last week, we lost Henry in the park for a few terrifying minutes, minutes that seem to stretch on and on in my memory, even though it wasn't that long and of course he was found, completely fine, if scared. But for those few minutes, we screamed into the woods, and there was no answer. That's where my memory is stuck.
And then it fast-forwards to a few days later, when I crossed a busy street against the light (stupid, I know, so stupid) and Henry was behind me, with Scott, only he bolted after me, and there were no cars even near him, but he wasn't looking and he followed and that's my freeze-frame, the innocent following, the trusting, damn it, all my fault.
The culmination occurred only a few minutes later, I think--maybe a half-hour?--when the encroaching stomach-sick that was threatening me all day, struck--on the subway. Where you really don't want something like that to happen. And I don't know whether it was the nausea that gave me a panic attack, or the panic attack that's been almost overtaking me for days kicked the nausea into high gear, but either way, I had to get off the train. I was in a blind panic and I told Scott, I have to get off the train now, and we were nowhere near home, and then I was on the platform, retching (unproductively, painfully) behind a garbage can, and I had no feeling in my arms and I was bathed in cold sweat and between retches I informed Scott that he had to get an ambulance because there was no way. There was no way I could get home. I was going to die there. On the G platform. The G! The very worst train!
At any rate, Scott (fortunately) did not panic, and no one called an ambulance (although a very nice passerby did offer to help, which was so kind--I would keep my distance from a lady retching on the subway platform, personally) and Henry patted me on the back, and the crisis subsided, and we actually got back on the train, where I shivered and sweated and felt generally pathetic.
That was my Sunday. Yesterday I was sick, curled up on the couch all day. Today I am better. I had a burger that was off, or a flu, is all. But I feel like an open wound, and my mind keeps going back, to the park, staring into the woods, or to the street, Henry following me, to the mistakes I keep making--or that moment in the subway--I don't know. I don't even know why I'm telling you this. Only that I feel alone with my thoughts and they won't let up and I am exhausted. I wish I could give myself a break but I am still not fully convinced that I deserve it.