It's a weird sort of week. Tomorrow, it will be one year since I restarted talking to the world. I'm not tired of it yet, although sometimes I do wonder what I'm after.
This has been the week of Weird Tears. I find myself crying over odd things -- never big, sloppy crying jags with snot on my face and no tissues in sight, just little moments of severe choking up and wet eyes and everything sweeping over me like tons of water and I have to stand there somehow and not get swept away. I cannot get swept away. I've been swept away before and the long fight to get on the ground, feet down, and figure out where you are is just too long to go through again. It's easier by far to refuse to be swept off my feet.
Part of me suspects that, now that I'm post miscarriage, my body is trying to remember the whole "in sync with the moon" thing and this is all personal hormonal experimentation. That would explain why I'm fine and happy one minute, and seeking Kleenex the next. All my cats are now wary when I start the little hiccuping crying sound, because I've grabbed them each into a heartbroken hug and wiped my little tearstreaked face on freshly arranged fur. For my overly appearance consious cats, this is an insult of monstrous proportions. It takes HOURS to get fur arranged just right.
My cats know how I feel. They know exactly my emotional state. They just don't CARE.
So anyway, have I ever mentioned how much I love buttered toast? I love buttered toast. For a while, I was considering using a picture I have of toast with butter as a logo. Honest. I can go through a whole loaf of (really good) bread just making and eating toast. I don't need jelly or honey or peanutbutter. Just good toast and butter and I'm happy. Toast makes everything better because you can't eat it while you are crying. It won't work. Soggy buttered toast is a nasty thing. So, if I eat toast, I have to calm down, and since the toast is good, I feel better. Toast Therapy.