Too Fast Now Furious

Artie was in his bed, his ears pasted back, his eyes droopy. He was scared. In the other room, Aimee sat in her white oversized robe trying to stop her tears long enough to finish putting on her makeup. In the living room the cats hid underneath the old oak record player. I stood in the kitchen with my teeth clenched. I hit the wall with the side of my fist. I screamed out in anger. By the time Aimee came out of the room to check on me, I was on the couch crying.

"I'm losing it. I am fucking overwhelmed. I can't think straight," I said to her. This was the climax. The point when the frustration over my new life, my new weaknesses, exploded.

The frustration had been mounting for weeks. Not having focus, or getting sidetracked each day with some new meaningless task, or the constant fucking thoughts about this injury, about my inabilities, about my fatigue; it mixed with everyday stress.

Three days into it, burdened by the depression, I told Aimee that I needed a break. I told her that going back to work six days after waking from the coma, rushing to get back to my life, avoiding idle time, wasn't an easy strategy for a hard recovery. Looking back, I see my errant ways and I fear that only now am I beginning to pay for them.

I see that I am unable to say no to new things. I see that I am unable to switch tasks. I see that I can't control my thoughts. I notice how weak my mind is. I see the ironies; being 'unable to switch tasks' is more than getting fixated on a little project, it's getting fixated on my overall routine, my new life, depressed and stressed.

And while this weekend's little breakdown resulted in some tears for Aimee, some uneasiness for Artie and the cats, I worry what it might turn into not only for them but for me as well.