| (no subject) |
[Dec. 12th, 2009|03:52 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | New Job Climbing the Walls | ] |
I hate leaving.
I don't so much mind being gone. But I HATE leaving. I hate the days leading up to leaving. I hate the anxiety about winter driving-- will there be snow? Will there be ice? Will we slide off the road and DIE??? I worry about accidents in the summer, too, but it's so, so much worse in winter. My own damn fault, I suppose, for trying to drive up to Castleton that time. I don't know if I'll ever precisely get over that.
I hate the idea of leaving the cats. Always and always and every time. Every time it feels like a death sentence for at least one of us, like I can't reasonably expect to come back and have everything be normal again. Like this is the last time I'll see one of them alive, or if it's me who dies, like this is the last time I'll see ANY of them. Like someone will break in and hurt them, something will happen. Something bad. That's all I know. And it's worse in winter.
I'm not a huge fan of flying, but that's mainly due to the anxiety (yes, that again) about getting through security in time, and the incredible difficulty of dealing with the lack of smoking lounges in airports across our fair shiny and whatnot-filled nation. Based on the testimony of a fast-food worker in some unknown Midwestern airport last time, I suspect that most places have some kind of secret smoking lounge, but they don't tend to advertise them, or even mark them on terminal maps. Now, though, I know that I need to ask an employee. Which may or may not help.
But we're not flying, not at the beginning and end of this trip. No, we're driving. For 12 hours, each way. Through mountains. In winter. Getting out to Portland involves a drive to the Indianapolis airport. That's a fair bit of 465, possibly even 37 if we end up staying in Bloomington the night before. But that's far, far less than the road from here to there. Getting from Portland to Indiana doesn't even involve us driving, just riding along in a car driven by Noah's dad, who is quite accustomed to Portland winters. But then we have to come back.
Someone should prescribe me some damn Valium or something.
I hate travel. I like not being in Baltimore, I like seeing friends. I like getting out of this grey overpaved enclave of emptiness and back into the world, where the seasons have some positive effects, where the wheel of the year is about a little more than in which direction the temperature in the living room is uncomfortable or how loud the stumbling is after the bars on this street close. I like seeing new places.
I hate driving to them.
And I HATE leaving the cats.
I have no more nights of normalcy left. There's driving tonight, though less of it, and then tomorrow we leave. And I KNOW we leave less early than I'd like.
I'd like just not to do it.
There are things one grows to understand over the idiotic, anxious years. Most of them, I rather wish I didn't have to.
Somebody should prescribe me some damn Valium, or something.
Packing won't help much. But not much is better than not at all.
ETA: Okay, we leave Monday. This gives us a little more time to be not-frantic. But not much time at ALL in Indiana. Which I guess we wouldn't have had anyway.
I ought at the very least to prescribe myself some damn food or something.
Ugh. |
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