My therapist once likened one of my perplexingly over-wrought responses to a relatively minor event to a bucket that had reached its maximum fill level: a single drop would set such a bucket splitting apart. These days I feel that proverbial bucket nearing its capacity, and more, I feel the little things about to start busting all its seams open.
I’ve explained to those around me that whatever grief I’ve been feeling has shifted into a general state of agitation and annoyance, mostly funneled into the bothered brusqueness of being rude to strangers, swearing at motorists, sighing at slow check-out lines, and other signs of dissatisfaction. I’m a little bit angry at a lot of the world, and lately I’ve felt it better to be by myself, holing up in the attic, steering clear of the news, and disengaging from social media aside from the regular blog links that keep this place bookmarked lest anyone forget. Having done so for twenty years, I can do such updates in my sleep, and much of my life feels like it’s on autopilot anyway.
As for how to navigate this tricky terrain as the holidays swing into full motion, I’m torn between channeling Ebenezer Scrooge and the Grinch, and hiding entirely away until the desolation of January – and a brand new year – is at hand.
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