Raging Mind

I can feel an itch between my shoulder blades, a heaviness in my chest, as I try to occupy my hands and mind before I give too much thought to the things I actually need to focus on. My upcoming move? No. My first time moving in with a romantic partner? No. My need for a full time job again? No. I need to pack for my move and apply to jobs. I need to apply myself to pack and pack my mind with maturity to apply to a job.

Instead, I lay down on my bed and try diving into the internet on my phone. I toggle between apps and web pages and social media and notes. And I think about the things that are easier to do on my tablet - like keep track of my to-do list. And I think about the things that are easier to do on my computer - like my email. And I want everything at my fingertips, so I make sure all my stuff is synced across my devices - phone, tablet, computer, sometimes even watch. My head hurts from staring at a small screen and rapid toggling. And a lovely analog notebook sits quietly next to my bed for a chance to be seen.

The notebook calls to me. My aunt gave me a notebook with a cute bull on it, one relaxing amongst a field of flowers. The cover makes me smile, as if it is enough to feign the soothing aspect of a field of flowers and a cute animal. However, I cannot be soothed by a cover alone. I flip over and lean on my elbows to make lists instead, simultaneously partaking in my nervous energy and and calming it down, trying to get everything out.

The cute bull notebook does not switch around on me. It does not make me dizzy. I have to focus my thoughts down the funnel of the pen to write them down - not even coherently. I don’t - I can’t - organize and rearrange anything on these pages. I can only gently lay out my thoughts so my writing is legible instead of violently thrown on the page.

I make an account of what’s on my altar in my room. I transcribe my "quotes of the day." I categorize my friends by how I know them - work, which elementary school, which state, high school, college, parties, local church, national churc, blood-related. I can also sort them by their birthdays, and if I know enough, I can sort them by their sun, moon, and rising astrological sign. (Their rising is closest to the traits they fit, the moon is their inner workings/emotions, and sun is how the world can see them most clearly. Maybe I wouldn’t be organizing so much with a Taurus moon in my chart.)

I dog-ear a page for my list of things to bring up at therapy next week.

I list meals I can make, TV shows I want to catch up on, groceries I need to buy, embroidery projects I owe to family, cards I owe to friends, fandoms I like, friends I want to see when I move, what I believe in, things I need to pack, things I need to donate, jobs I can do, jobs I want to do, why my old job ruined me, and small moments of love I have felt.

I stubbornly dig and dig and dig into more lists so I can feel control. I don’t look for jobs because I can’t control those. I can’t control shit supervisors, or my freeze response when I hear my old office’s messaging app go "ping!" in the real world, or senior staff who don’t understand that I’m only the beginning of their problems.

I flop onto my back again, exhausted, and not even from this task. Exhausted of the whirling in my head, of a world that doesn’t want me to stop, of falling off the face of the Earth to recover. I cannot escape my own head. The pen is only the pressure valve, and the paper takes all it can. The scrape and flow of the two meeting doesn’t overstimulate me.

Soon, the cute bull notebook will also take on stickers and cute things I get in packages I order so I can look back at them. I’m already excited to look back fondly. Or worriedly, as happens with these brain dumps. For now, a nap could be for me. I’ll get to packing tomorrow with a less cluttered head.