The tide of my terrible time at work was broken yesterday. Stuff worked. Lots of stuff all at once. Granted this may only be one day's grace, and it will all go to pot on Thursday. But it came at a good time. I don't think I could have taken much more.
On Friday I was basically catatonic. Another day of nothing working, after more than a month. Even the fundamental shit that should not be a problem was screwed. My only explanation at that point was that aliens came in the night and deactivated all of my enzymes, and zapped me with a plague of flies while they were at it.
I was feeling so bad, my self-esteem was squashed like a flea. When I feel like that I completely dissociate from the world. I cannot speak to people.
Of course I am not wearing a sign saying PLEASE PLEASE DO NOT SPEAK TO ME RIGHT NOW, ASK NOTHING OF ME WHATSOEVER.
So people bloody well speak to me don't they? And then I just want to run away or bawl or something equally antisocial.
I know, I am a freakazoid. When I feel bad, having people around me drains me. Some people need other people around them for comfort, I am the opposite. I need time alone to find my way back to myself.
Ever since I have been feeling bad about work, all that I can think about is the ocean. Very specifically the Indian Ocean, and most specifically, the stretch along Kwa Zulu Natal, which is in South Africa if you did not happen to know. That rough, warm stretch with the sharkies, both the rugger-bugger and the sharptoothed kinds.
Somehow the damn Indian ocean has dug it's salty claws into me and won't let go, and I have no idea why. As I have said before, we never even visited it much when I lived no more than 20 minutes away. But last year I did spend over a week swimming in it every day, from Durban beach front to Mhlanga to Sharka's Rock, tumbling around like a deranged pebble in those crazy waves.
Lately that ocean has been my only source of comfort. It is a calming vision in my chaotic mind. I keep telling myself that if things get really bad, and I lose my job due to gross incompetence or an alien invasion, all I need is money for a flight.
Then I can go and live by the ocean: in a tent, or a box or a palm leaf, or in the nude, or in a nice person's luxury apartment, whatever, and learn to fish, and eat bananas (I freaking hate bananas but I will persevere) or other people's leftover Steers burgers.
And I can swim and swim and tumble, and hear that soothing sound, and somehow, because of that intoxicating all-powerful ocean, everything will be alright.
Except for if I get munched on by a shark.
If I did, it would probably be an alien disguised as a shark, because the bastards are clearly out to get me. I hope the bananas give him a really bad feeling in his bowels.