I’m falling apart a bit. A few seams undone—slowly, but unmistakably—unraveling. I feel too exposed. Too much of the wrong thing. Too not what you want. Too abrasive, like low-grit sandpaper—the kind used for the toughest, messiest jobs. A little neglectful, even, in ways I can’t quite name.
I watched a video once. More than once, actually. The kind that makes your breath catch in your throat: a social media daredevil climbing the ledge of a skyscraper, dangling by his fingers over the world. He’d done it before—countless times. But this time… this time, he couldn’t quite pull himself back up. No harness. No safety net. No one there to help. Just gravity. And he lost.
Why did I watch it again?
Because it’s that feeling. The drop of a roller coaster when your insides lift a floor. I hate it. I love it. I hate it more. To feel. To be on the edge. To be stirred up like open wounds in vinegar. I feel tormented. And I torment myself.
I know this feeling. The stumble. That slow-motion second when your toe catches, your ankle twists unnaturally, and—snap.
Archie’s paws are red—irritated. He limped across the living room floor today, and I immediately felt guilt. Like it was my fault. A stye is forming on my eyelid, tender and hot, a reminder of the last time I ignored one too long. I ended up needing a small surgery, a slit to drain the hardened infection. I wonder if that’s where the panic lives—somewhere in the memory of too much time gone by. Of the wrong online doctor’s advice that nearly landed me in the ER.
Everything feels a little off. A belly too tight from dinner and dessert. Teeth, I didn’t floss. A low hum of need I can’t quiet—more care, more time, more something. There’s a high-pitched frequency threading the air, just for me, and nothing seems to mute it.
Maybe a shower will help. Hot water over my closed eye. Or maybe a long bath. Flossing. A salt soak for Archie’s paws. A list of small redemptions.
I want to be taken care of—really taken care of. A robust salad made for me. A fresh haircut. A vet visit that doesn’t require budget gymnastics. I want to fix everything and not worry about the cost. I want permission. I’m tired of the tug-of-war. The should I, shouldn’t I. I just want to go. Just say, “Fuck it,” and go.
So maybe I’ll start there. With the bath. With flossing. With Archie.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 