There’s a moment after meeting an artist I admire when I mentally slap myself. Palm smacking my imagined forehead, I fixate: I said THAT? Why? Why did I use those words? Did I communicate anything? What was I thinking?
Tuesday, July 31, 2018
If the last eight days had been intentional, then I could call this an experiment, an exercise in how to be cruel to myself. However it was not intentional….I really did not mean to facilitate this shittiness.
Which is an overly poetic way of saying that I burned out. Hard. My habitual multitasking and perfectionism (which got me through highschool and college) broke my adult life. I was balancing on the knife’s edge - except it felt like pretty stable ground to me.
Then, my beloved dog - the little four-legged bundle of stubbornness and unyielding love - did what all living things do. He aged. He died. And I plummeted