Tuesday, March 09, 2010


It's been a long time since the first thing I did when I got home was to try to shower away a very bad day.

I stood there, under the hot water and visualised all the gross things from this day, this season, washing off of me.

The fear and anxiety and panic.

The sense of homelessness.

The anger and resentment.

The worry.

The obessessive neuroses.

I stood there and thought about those things being washed free from me, about being washed clean.

And I wondered, too, in the corner of my mind, if Grandma was thinking that I was taking too long in the shower.

Because one of the things she told me quite incredulously when I first took a shower in this house, was how the previous tenant had showered for 20 minutes, without turning the fan on, and now look, the finish on the bathroom door was ruined. 

And I laughed inwardly, because, though I don't know why she didn't turn the fan on, to save the finish on the door, 20 minutes didn't really seem that excessive to me, but I supposed that to someone who was 80, a child of the great depression, and currently often simply bathes herself at the sink, it seemed like a ridiculous luxury.

So I stood there and washed myself clean, and tried to laugh, remembering the incredulous tone. "20 minutes, can you imagine?"

And somehow, it helped, and I felt freer, moving on to supper, to pills (so grateful that the day was kind of okay without my usual supplements, so thankful to be able to take the suppertime dose), and to anticipating talking with A.

Freer, it seems, feels good.