Just 24 little hours, is what the song says. But I don’t even need 24 hours. A good nights sleep can usually rectify a number of my horrible thought processes. Because falling asleep under a black blanket of depression, guilt, self-pity and whatever additional pins I feel like sticking into my belly to make it contract, only ensures a morning that’s drizzling inside my head.
Drizzling’s good, however. It’s no longer a downer downpour.
What seems so hopeless at the end of a day filled with self-hatred lessens considerably after the oxygen in my brain has been properly filtered. My apocalyptic thinking backs itself out of two or three corners or despair while I doze. Exaggerations are deflated. Add coffee and a solid bowel movement this morning, and I’m almost human.
So, first on the agenda? Beat myself up for being in such a horrible mood yesterday. Which is how I choose to look at a day a normie would rate as fine to good. Even with all the setbacks and jerk-arounds that comes with buying a used car, plus a ton of office work that was waiting for me last night, I maintained a level of acceptance that never boiled over into wrong-sized yelling or sabotage. Though, at two different points I was about to halt the entire buying process and walk based on things that had nothing to do with the car or its price. They had to do with my sense of self and my delusions of reality.
Mix in doubt and regret on top of a pile of unsorted crap I already was dealing with, and things can turn bleak in a hurry. Thankfully, there are those I can turn to who get all that; all that whatever I rambled about above.
Another 24 hours. There are no guarantees either way. So, pure chance says today’s got a fifty-fifty shot. Considering where I’m coming from, I’ll take those odds.