There was one afternoon this week where I put my earbuds in and listened to this album over and over. I had work to do but I was useless. I hung my head over the side over the couch and turned the volume up so loud my teeth vibrated and I talked to people in my head. There were moments I talked to them out loud, like I was running lines. I stared at the walls. I fell asleep and woke up clammy, my heart slamming against my chest.

I go for 3, 4, 5 weeks at a time where I don’t take a day off and when I’m in it, I’m so good. Scripts get read, copy gets written, prose gets written. (Except reverse that. I get up early for my projects and give leftover energy to work-work.) Miles are run. Laundry, groceries, protein and carbs are prepared in the correct rations for distance training, which I’m doing again. Everyone gets prompt email replies. The tub gets cleaned. I crush Words With Friends opponents.

Then when deadlines pass my brain and body demand a break and I find myself staring at my keys, trying to figure out why my mail key won’t open my door.

This makes me think that I’d be excellent in a trauma situation. Like a plane crash. Am I the only person who visualizes how they’d act in a plane crash? I would crawl through burning fuselages on a broken pelvis and tell rescuers I was fine when they found me. I would probably make jokes about my singed eyebrows. About 2 days later, I’d have a serious breakdown during which I’d cry for 6 straight hours. 

I hate book submission time.