We've got to stop meeting like this

Here we are again. Me, the laptop, my cough and a cup of Nighty Night. On the loveseat. 5:10 AM. It's still midnight dark, but an early bird is singing like it's dawn.

This cold took a turn for the worse on Friday, about the time I developed pink eye. So Saturday morning I hauled myself off to the walkin clinic for eyedrops and antibiotics.

Great folks at the local walkin clinic. They dispensed scripts and kitchen medicine and I felt like they really listened to me.

And I didn't feel so bad about asking for help that I had to cry about it, for which I'd like to thank my therapist. Her name is Karen, the name of one of my best friends, and her coloring and a few of her mannerisms remind me for all the world of Jon Erik's Aunt Mary. Sweet woman, Aunt Mary.

Anyway, I've long had this problem going to the doctor. Revealing my weakness, asking for help, the shame of my body betraying me--usually its so hard that I can't keep back the tears. Which makes me look like a sick nutcase. It's good to see some progress.

Really, I've come to see, my body isn't betraying me. It's just trying to tell me something. It's trying to tell me that I'm overwhelmed and overcommitted. There have, of course, been other signs, but I ignored them, so here we are.

The preliminary sign was loosing things: my Palm's stylus, Case ID (aka my parking lot entry key), and my ATM card. Then, in the face of these losses, body tension. I'd wake up with fists clenched, arms clutched up against my chest, jaw set.

I'd like to keep writing. There's more to say.But I'm feeling too sleepy.

The Nighty Night has done its thing.