Sea Change

Blindsided by depression, this weekend has been -- not exactly a wash? I just can't bear to interact with anyone or anything but comfort books: Jean Auel; Carolyn Keene. "Is there anything I can do?" I didn't anticipate how unwelcome, how insulting that question would feel; yet it is the only possible inquiry. The situation is what it is.

I can't ever call her again. Not that I called much before; often, the sight of her number on my cell would cause a violent jerk, eye-rolling: There is nothing to resist now.

I long to be wrapped up in something: immobilized, untouched by anyone: Yesterday I spent 14 hours in bed, unmoving. Only the bedding's weight felt right. Honestly, I long to be mummy-bound in a fetal position, laid in a packing box and slid under the bed to pupate. Send myself in a boat out to sea, for the message's duration. All outer life, at present, is noise.