Anyone Know a Good Lobotomist?

Stupid, f-ing hormones. Yes, I blame YOU for this. ('Cuz if it's not your fault, we have a lot bigger problems to deal with.) I woke up today with my life in (minor) shambles. My brain is going on and on with a line of questioning that has no answers. Is this what I want? Am I doing the right thing? What am I doing here? Is this the stupidest thing I've ever done? Can I undo it? Is this really something I need to do something about, or will life take care of it on its own? Is there any way to know? But I'm happy – why am I second-guessing myself? Why won't these questions just go away? I really don't want to deal with any of them. Argh! (And if you have no idea what I'm talking about, then good, I've done a decent enough job of glossing over my problems. Because I do not need to air all of my dirty laundry for the entire Internet. But it's tempting.)

And you know it's bad when your head is still going on about this in church and you're getting mad at the old people sitting next to you for talking to each other too loudly. Tension, frustration. And dropping the prayer card thingy on the floor. Tension, frustration, tension, frustration. And then you're pissed off at the choir director. Just shut up with your announcements and let us sing the damn song. That I don't even like anyway. We know how this music-in-church thing works, we don't need a lesson in the middle of the service. Shhhh already! Get. To. The. Singing! Tension, frustration, tension, frustration, tension, frustration, nearly to the point of tears, in the middle of church.

Hi, yes, I'm just a wee bit strung out today, why do you ask? (Smiling falsely and batting eyelashes rapidly.)

It reminds me of the conversations/fights that Nick and I used to have. We'd pretend to calmly, rationally discuss the state of our relationship, and he'd try to convince me that, sure it's not where I want it to be, but that doesn't mean it's bad, and it'll get there, eventually, someday, maybe. But in the meantime, no, no I don’t love you, but there's nothing wrong with that, because I want to be in love with you, but it just hasn't happened yet, and I know you love me and I'm happy about that and we're all just peachy here and I really do like you and appreciate what you do for me, and if it doesn't work out between the two of us, I'm sure you'll find someone better. (Which is exactly what you want to hear from someone who's supposed to be in love with you by now damn it, right?) And although we are both very intellectual, talk-things-through kind of people and the conversations would start out with actual words, somewhere along the line I would invariably be in tears. Like, can't-even-string-together-an-entire-sentence-
without-being-interrupted-by-more-sobbing tears. I cried more in those twelve months than in the preceding 25 years combined. And reapplied a lot of mascara.

I wish I could blame all that on hormones, like I suspect is today's problem, but we had those conversations more frequently than every four weeks. Yeah. Those were twelve very long months. And for the people who heard many of the blow-by-blow accounts: I can't believe you still talk to me. But thanks.

And now? I'm going to go make some coffee and enjoy my five-thousand-calorie, chocolate-covered, custard-filled doughnut. After which maybe I'll go find some Midol and wash it down with a bottle of cabernet. I've never actually taken Midol, but today might be a good time to start. It's that or some Valium. The wine, though? Is A Must. These nerves have got to chill out somehow.