Meltdown Recovery

So…apparently I’m just unstable now.

Just…completely unstable.

Like the rest of the extremists. I guess.

All it really took. To unleash the instability. Was just for one co-worker to stop by my office. Look in. And say good morning.

That was it. That was all it took. Just for someone to be nice.

Just be nice.

And apparently there was something in my eyes…I don’t know…panic or maybe despair, I guess?

“Who do I need to beat up?”

And fuck if that didn’t just open the floodgates.

Apparently I’ve spent enough of my life resisting support in any form. That even minor demonstrations of protectiveness now just bring all the walls crumbling down.

Which is entirely unsettling.

Because I’m a grown ass independent woman. Dammit.

So obviously I messaged Rogue and Fall Risk.

Which just led to possibly the sweetest lecture I’ve ever received. From Rogue. The gist of which was to send my ass back home. To take care of my damn self.

Which opened more floodgates. When she told me to stop treating her better than I treat me.

Fucking clinicians.

So when I got myself together enough to leave my office. Without causing a scene. I gave Reluctant Facebook Friend one of those little pink sheets of paper asking if I can please leave at 2pm. For everyone’s best interest.

And I was kind of ok. Until Ghost shows up. And apparently my impending full blown meltdown was becoming clearer. So he told Reluctant Facebook Friend that maybe we should push that leave time up to noon.

And so I spent the next few hours cuddling the gift that Tina Fey brought me…

My office smells like a day spa now.

And look. I don’t entirely know. I have spent the entirety of this pandemic having reasonable, yet incredibly frustrating conversations with way too many friends and family members. Trying to explain statistics.

Statistics.

Fucking. Statistics.

Y’all know how I feel about math.

Stop making me explain statistics!

And my kids are buying my house. Which makes me so so happy. But also. Fuck. I’ve got to find a fucking place to live, y’all. And there are no places to live.

And I have to leave Lobo here when I do move. Because this is his home. And apparently you don’t just rip an elderly out of the only home they’ve ever know. Especially in the middle of a pandemic.

And work is…fuuuuuuck. It’s public education. I shouldn’t need to get into that anymore.

And all of these fucking injuries with absolutely zero improvement in my ability to fit into clothes. Which Endurance Goals says is my body being efficient. Which sounds way better than calorie hoarder.

Ohhhh. And there’s an election tomorrow. Just…fuck.

So when Janky Left Pinky Toe stopped by my office. And immediately closed the door and sat down. All I could say is, “I don’t know! I don’t know? I don’t know.”

And all I had to do is make it to 4:30 for my massage.

Because I absolutely need to be touched.

Because I’m apparently trading first dibs at sex for cleaning supplies. I’d explain that more, but…

Yeah. It’s just where my friends and I are in life.

So I was just really anxious to get to my massage this afternoon.

And poor Massage Chick looked a little panicked when I warned her. That I was very weepy today. So there is a strong chance that I’ll just break the fuck down. And I was told there should be snot when I do. A lot of it. So can I please have some tissues beside me. Because my mask can only hold so much…

To her credit, she assured me that she wouldn’t let me asphyxiate on my own tears and devastation.

And perhaps it was that protective stance that put me at ease. So that I didn’t break the fuck down. At any point.

Or probably it was the fucking pain. Because when I asked her to hurt me. She took me at my word.

Oh she called it something fancy like “therapeutic healing” or some shit.

But she threw elbows up and down my back.

Which is exactly what it takes to work out the knots I carry around in a normal year.

These 2020 knots damn near require an exorcism.

And I was starting to feel excited. About the level of relaxed I was going to feel at the end of this torture session.

And she was really getting into my hips. Twisting my legs all around while she dug all in there.

And I could feel the muscles surrendering the vicious hold they’ve had on my hips for years.

Which made me think maybe it would be a good time to go see Chiro Doc. While my muscles were beaten into submission.

And then Massage Chick starts working on my thighs.

And. Ok. So, I mean she’s running her hands up my inner thigh. Right? Totally normal. I mean, only mildly erotic. Since I haven’t been touched in a minute.

But then this bitch yawns.

Audibly yawns.

While running her hand up my thigh?

Excuse me, bitch?

That’s pleasure zone adjacent. We don’t fucking yawn when we’re approaching the pleasure zone.

I mean, I get it. It’s late. Time change. The sun set hours ago. We’re all tired. A yawn is reasonable.

Just…maybe do it when you’re massaging my arm or doing that scalp massage thing.

And then she works her way over to the other thigh.

And. Fucking. Yawns. Again.

Look. Imma need you to learn how to stifle that shit.

So. Whatever.

It’s fine.

I came out feeling appropriately beaten down. My body and ego both.

Wandered around parking lot for a while before remembering where in fuck I parked my car.

And just to ensure full emotional recovery going into tomorrow.

I stopped for cookie baking supplies.

No no. It’s an important piece of the baking process.

I told Rogue she needs to go see Massage Chick this week.

And I swear if that bitch doesn’t fucking yawn while working on Rogue…

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