Shame

I loved this sign last Friday.

There's also no shame in admitting that my body is not working correctly anymore. And so I go. I used to be afraid of this decision, to be honest. But I'm so tired, that I'm past the fear, and just ready to move on. I can't be in this much discomfort 75% of my life. I noticed the other day that I've gone back to squirreling feminine products everywhere. They are under the seat of the car, in the glove box of the van, multitudes in every bathroom, in my purse of course, and I know where all the clean gas stations are on every route I travel. This must stop. It feels like a disorder of the weird-trying to hide it from the world. I carry on, smile and don't bend wrong, excuse myself often, discreetly. Besides the physical tiredness of making that much waste, I'm exhausted from the carrying on as if I'm fine, really I am. I haven't been writing much, I have begun several posts, but they sound random, distant.

I'm waiting for a doctor appointment this week, in my mind, that will end the waiting. I'll share more after he and I meet, but I hate wait. I've been scattered in my thinking, doing a little of this, not really finishing any started project. I've started a few more, what am I thinking? I think it's like a menstrual fever of sorts; I can't imagine living the rest of a week, a month, gasp, forever, this way. I love to play piano, but I haven't. I want to finish my wooden blocks project, but I haven't. I planned to paint my office, but I haven't. I have piles everywhere of
filing, of good ideas, I wonder ifs.
I wonder if I'm alone in the wandering mind syndrome. Probably not, but I'm realizing there's no shame in this either. Freeing, really.