Fingers on the keyboard. It’s the actual physicality of writing that’s pleasant. Or holding a pen and scratching on the pages of the journal. It’s soothing. I used it as a coping mechanism being raised by my family who couldn’t connect with me emotionally. 

            That’s enough backstory for now. 

            So here’s how the other day went. I woke up at 9 am after a breakthrough with a panic attack in the middle of the night with “This is just my body releasing stress” mantra. I told Paul, my husband, all about it. Gave him some advice, warranted or not, I don’t know. I had breakfast, joined a zoom meeting with my unorthodox spiritual teacher, but didn’t feel the vibe this particular day. I texted another surrendered soul, let’s call him Bob, about my nighttime breakthrough.

“Shall we talk?” he asked.
“Yeah.”

We got on Skype for the next hour and a half. I told him about my experience. Then we went into how there’s no self doing or deciding anything. Nothing is happening and it’s all just happening. And can I see how at this moment, whatever THIS IS, wants to talk about that moment?

            Whatever it is just comes. Here it is. Just showed up. Just like the stuff with the door just now. Looking at the door handle, telling Paul it looks good but missing parts. He found the parts. Now he’ll be putting in the parts. I sat back down to write. First, I put on his checkered buttoned-down shirt because I got cold. 

            Back to Bob and our conversation. So, it’s all just showing up. Here’s the next thing and the next. Now, I’ll do this and the thought comes in after the fact as if it created this moment and the next obvious thing. Maybe this allergy pill is helping. My nose feels clearer, my throat not so much.

The day is winding down. There’s something here that wants to break down each moment, each segment into its essence. It’s also more fun this way. Not looking for the next thing to do but whatever occurs in each moment. We were going to go vape but then Paul discovered the missing pieces to the door handle puzzle and so that got me to sit down again and continue writing.

            Back to how the day went. After my conversation with Bob where he also gave me some good tips on how and what to get for what I need, Paul and I called a dispensary and ordered Indica with minuscule THC that’s good with easing anxiety and negative thoughts. It cost $30.

So we journeyed over to the dispensary, picked up our supply, stopped at a smoke shop, picked up the best vaporizer on the market, PX3. Went hiking. Got a call from Mom. They lost the cat. They found the cat. She was missing since the morning, the longest ever. Found her in the garage, waiting. The other result would have put a damper on my birthday the next day. Not that it was anything special. 

            We got tacos, took them home. The body felt a bit weird afterward, so I took an allergy pill. Maybe I’m having a gluten allergy. I have no idea anymore. We ate while watching Juno. A feel-good movie. 

            We tried to figure out how to work our new vape. We were almost there. We had to take a break because Paul had to go to the bathroom and I took that as an opportunity to do some reading and writing. Then he started working on the screen door, which suited me just fine. Vape lay forgotten. All of that came about one instance after another without premeditation. 

            Then I started thinking about yoga. We hadn’t done our session yet of the 30 Days of Yoga with Adriene (highly recommend for new and pro yogis). It was already seven. Something told me to check social media so I pressed on Instagram. Less intrusive than FB. Maybe it’s because it’s still new to me. 

            I only read one chapter of a friend’s manuscript. I wanted to read more but I also wanted to finish my daily 3 pages. I was thinking about getting back to Worldship (my debut novel) again. That too just happened. I’d like to go through it slowly and nitpick at Miles’ character. Maybe he’s still an enneagram four and not a six. I feel like a four at the moment.

Fours are self-absorbed and channel their energies creatively. He needs a creative outlet besides the guitar to win over a woman. Something he was doing before he saw her. Sure he likes investing, but he needs an outlet. It would probably have to be writing. Does he journal? Does he attempt to write the next great American novel? 

Something more about the panic attacks, now that I’m intimately familiar with them. He’s afraid to dissolve, for his identity to disappear. Who would he be without his quirks? His activities have to be holding it together. He would need to bring M’s relative over as a way to seduce her back, to cope with his own guilt. Fours go to 2 in stress. He’s using manipulating tactics. 

His favorite book is The Count of Monte Cristo. Maybe he tries to write a similar story. His version, that includes the backstory of how he made his money, the lost love that he’s hoping to regain. But he already made all his money and the love did not come until C.

Maybe he does not write the book to sell it or even publish it. He writes it for posterity. He writes it to know himself, to know his soul, to know what’s wrong with it, maybe get a resolution to the panic attacks. 

Bang! Paul is having a hard time with the screen door. Our eighty-some-year-old Asian neighbor passes by, looks at him, says, “Wow,” and laughs, walks on. Boxes are strewn about everywhere. The neighbor walks every day, twice a day, up and down the corridor of our little ghetto. Less so now cuz of COVID. But she’s not wearing a mask anymore. People have become laxer. 

I change the font to 12 Times New Roman instead of 10.5 Ariel. I didn’t even know it was set to such a small font. Something felt off because the page did not seem to have an end. 

I go inside as it got too cold for comfort. Now I’m more comfortable. And that’s what the body does. It seeks comfort, nourishment, shelter, companionship, and if those things are not disturbed by the person next to you, then maybe we can call that love.