Yesterday I learned that if you are having the kind of day that makes you cry into your peanut butter sandwich, you should just pack it in immediately. Go home. Crawl in bed.
Last night, late, after coming home from a completely unsatisfying textile class - a class that I thought would turn my mood around, and one in which I fucked up my silkscreen and disliked the color of everything I made, I poured a big glass of wine, plopped myself on the couch, and called Jane.
Earlier in the day Jane had been the lucky recipient of an over the top pit of despair email. She said she read my missive, laughing all the while. Not at my angst, but because she could picture the Lisa diving into hysteria process. And because the text of my email was so off the wall. Because she knows me so well.
She knew exactly the kind of hysterical little burrow that I'd gnawed myself into. The kind of smoothly hollowed dark place where reason and rationality have no surface to which to cling. The kind of place that you cannot even hope to claw yourself out of all by yourself. Because you are so far past the pale of reality.
You need an old old friend to say, "Hello! Hi! I know where this comes from and I know how to pull you back to solid ground. Sit down, have a glass of wine, and talk to me."
So there I am in my comfiest fleece, wine in hand, describing myself sobbing into my peanut butter sandwich. We giggled and giggled, because for god's sake, who doesn't put down the sandwich?
Honestly. If this isn't a sign that you should give up on your day, I don't know what is.