“Do you have any tattoos?” was not a question I expected to be asked in the Psych ER. But there I was–curled up on what Plato would refer to as a couch that’s not ideal, with one of my friends next to me–so unprepared for the question that followed: “Do you have a boyfriend? Because I want to be yours.”
Apparently not having tattoos is not a prerequisite for love.
I told him I’d think about it, but thinking about that was not number one on my priority list. Every 15 minutes he’d walk by, “Have you thought about it, yet?”
Time still passes in the Psych ER, albeit slowly.
I had thought about it, but not in the way he wanted. I thought about what had led me to this spot. What I could have done differently. What I did right. What I did wrong.
I thought about the way snowflakes feel as they melt on your tongue, cold for just an instant.
I thought about who was coming to sit with me next. Was anyone going to come? Was I going to be sitting alone? Was coming to sit with me a major inconvenience in their life? (I’m not allowed to ask such questions out loud.)
I thought about my past, where I was in the present, where I wanted to be in the future. Have I accomplished what I had hoped to accomplish by now? What do I need to do today to help me accomplish what I want to accomplish tomorrow?
I thought about everything that would need to be done at work in my absence–what would happen if the printer went down? Did everybody have enough time to do my work and theirs?
I thought about everything and nothing.
But what I haven’t thought about yet is how to take care of myself first, which is the most important thing.
Friends, I need help with that.