Severely lacking my appetite, I just spent five minutes wandering around the kitchen, opening and closing the fridge and the cupboards a few times, then proceeded to pull a frozen pizza out of the freezer. I opened the box, pulled out the pizza, stared at it, then shoved it back inside the freezer and poured myself a bowl of mini wheats.
Tomorrow I'm stepping on a plane. By myself.
It'll be the first time I've ever been away from Margot, and the days and weeks leading up to this trip have been fraught with waves of anxiety. One minute I'm okay, and the next, I'm overcome with this desperation that I have a hard time knowing exactly how to explain. Separation anxiety is a force to be reckoned with, let me tell you.
Margot and I have led a very fortunate life together thus far, where circumstances and choices kept us together every day, more or less, for the past twenty-six months of her life. We've spent days apart, sure - tons of them - but never a night. We spent nearly two years inseparable due to her chronic waking up at night, and subsequent need to comfort-nurse; but now that she sleeps through the night, she doesn't need me anymore in the same way she used to.
And this is a good thing. Except that I never quite got beyond my insatiable need to be there for her. Like I know I never will. And this trip I'm taking is a benchmark in my growing up from dependent mama with baby to dependent mama sans baby whatsoever. And it's scaring the shit right out of me.
Anxiety, like depression, takes on this form that leaves me almost totally unable to adequately articulate exactly why it is that I feel the way I do. My rational brain knows everything is going to be just fine; and that beyond that, my absence will barely be a blink on Margot's radar; and I'm going to have an amazing time away - being with my sisters for the first time in a year and a half, being back on the grey-blue shores of the Atlantic, back in the place where we all became who we are. All this I know. It's just that...beyond a way I can't really explain, or a way that anyone would necessarily ever understand unless they've felt this too, I cannot lug this weight off my shoulders.
And it's a bandaid I know I have to just rip off - and I will - barring any real acceptance that the second or third time I do this will come any easier; but onward I will continue to march, with all the reluctance I can hang on to. I think I accidentally flushed every last ounce of my bravery down the toilet.
So tomorrow, braced with my kindle, my headphones, and Hozier and Asgeir loaded onto my phone, I'll head east. Strangers might see me march boldly, while I'll know in my heart and my mind and my body that I'm fighting against my strongest urges while my legs turn to rubber bands and my magnetic heart pulls so hard and so strong to be back home with my girl.
All prayers, thoughts and hilarious memes posted on my Facebook wall will be so very much appreciated.
Off I march, boldly I go, with the great gusto of a human baked potato.