About a week after I talked about my recent adventures abroad and plans to continue my winding, air-supported cross-country trip, a friend asked me out for drinks. I had cancelled on her so many times I couldn’t say no and feel good about myself, despite my mood. That night, dead sober, I wound up in the ER with a broken bone in my foot. F*ck.
The things I said to God, the sun lord Horus, sentient trees, and everybody else listening during my trip to the hospital were not respectful. Florida. San Francisco. Seattle. Possibly Vancouver. I immediately and obsessively calculated every flight dollar spent that I might lose.
Some friends theorize that this is a forced slowdown, that my body needs the rest. Except my daily life is rest because my health demands it. I live at 50%, 90% of the time. When I’m charged to 100%, I don’t squander that energy. I fairly bolt out the door, soaking in my surroundings, all the while monitoring my body’s battery life. There were two exhibits I missed in Portland because I needed to abruptly return to my hotel room to sleep. I lost almost $100 on a Paris tour because I was too sore to rouse myself by the 9 AM meeting time. I budget for a lot of cabs, because if I start to crash physically, I’m disinclined to wait for a bus, slumped over and feeling shitty.
I suppose it might seem manic to an outsider, but my actions are simply a reaction to the absence of pain. I know all about managing rest. I didn’t need to relearn this lesson.