I haven’t cooked in awhile.
Ok, I made tuna salad a week ago. And egg salad the week before that. And, like…I’ve made some sandwiches.
I’ve had lapses in my cooking and baking before. I know how I roll when it comes to stress; I have bleak periods of concentrated brain and function slush and then it goes away or I pull free or both and POOF a cake with piped roses and three batches of homemade ice cream and moussaka and sangria.
But…even in my bleakest slush periods, I’ve always wanted to cook. I’ve wanted to get into my meals, I’ve remembered the thrill of a new flavor and the satisfaction of a completed dish, and was comforted by the consistency in my history for always, eventually, returning to the counter.
I haven’t missed it this time around. Not authentically, anyway. My thoughts on it have been distant, like looking at a photo album of me before my memories; I smile but I’m just being affable because I don’t want to be that person who doesn’t smile at a baby pic.
I’ve slipped, character wise, in other places, too.
I don’t normally have mood swings with my blood sugars. I’ll fluctuate, but the highs and lows have never caused me to emotionally spiral. And a few days ago, I caught myself in a two day rage spiral that was entirely blood sugar related. It scared me and finally made me stop floating through my life and really look at the cracked pavement beneath my translucent fleeing feet.
I keep reminding myself of the constants in my life. The things that have been there forever, that have changed with me while staying familiar and steady, should help me keep my bearings on a path that has been suddenly ravaged by necessity and unplanned truth.
So, here I float, eyeing the cracked slink of ground I used to roam from my floating perch of faded tatters and disordered awareness.
I’ll have extra coffee tomorrow.