Rebecca Cook

So I am an HSP. A Highly Sensitive Person. I have heard this term over the past few months and I thought that it was just another fad,  another way to explain the obvious, but I see now that it is actually a recognized (since the 1990s) personality trait, or rather a set of personality traits that signifies behavior patterns in a person. This should probably not be surprising to me or anyone else who knows me, and when my husband…

It's time to talk about my frustrations. When I'm frustrated my automatic response is anger. Rage. Fury. These emotions are outsized and out of proportion, super-sized and overwhelming. Frustration #1. My son, my adult child, my autistic sweet giving loving in-his-own-way first born formally tow-headed little boy James needs physical reconditioning for his heart, for his well-being. I am neither inclined nor qualified to do this for him. It might be different if he were interested. It might be different if…

I really, really want my planner to get here. So I can start planning in detail. And yes, I know I must remind myself that this planning notion is to simplify my life, not over-complicate it. But planning can and, I think, ought to be fun--I can decorate the pages if I wish. It comes with stickers and inserts. I am eager to get started. And I need to take care of my calendar situation. I bought an Audrey Hepburn calendar…

Trying to focus. Having a hard go of it. Still. Yesterday I tested Covid-free for the second day in a row so that is behind me, behind all of this household. But when I went out yesterday I had to deal first thing with the perennially incompetent CVS and it just ruined my morning. I HATE dealing with that store so much that I must stop writing about it right now. The good thing about yesterday is that Dale and I…

I ordered my planner yesterday after watching this chick Amanda on You Tube who evidently does nothing on there but review planners and planning methods. She was extraordinarily helpful and I highly recommend. It was between Laurel Denise and Erin Condren. I considered getting a large landscape style, like one of those huge old checkbooks, but in the end I chose this from Erin Condren: These are customizable planners and I chose a vertical orientation instead of a horizontal. There is…

When you have an endless layover at the airport, or you’re sitting in a hospital bedside someone who is sick, the feeling of the doing of it, that misplacement, that crouching down in suspended time may thrust you into a different place of consciousness. It is exhausting this habitation of a false space, a reality that is not fully your own. But then, at some point, you pass from feeling misplaced to a sort of pervasive numbness as though you have…

Tomorrow will be a week. I am so zoned out on dextromethorphan that I think I should just take it on the regular. I have, for me, endless patience and understanding. I'm taking everything in stride. Why would I ever, why did I ever bark at spoons and dishtowels? Life has become a slow journey on a swiftly flying horse. I cough. My throat hurts. I wonder at tiny things, little gnats that seem gathered at the lights, at the windows,…

If I had a garret, a drafty, unheated, freezing upper-room sort of garret, I would be writing this there. The sickness is settling in in new ways--I feel I may be coughing by morning. I am too tired. But have done useful things. In spite of it. Not many, but a few. Tomorrow may be a day of nothing. Null and void as though God has turned his face away from the waters of my garret-tomb. Or I may be smiled…

Actually, in spite of this relentless neausea nausea I am feeling an upswing in mood. I went down at noon to open gifts, then I dragged myself back upstairs. I don't particuallry particularly want to be alone up here, but I'm bad company, and I also feel cocooned up here, snugged in, just not as vulnerable. And as I write this I realize that my feeling of "Robo-Tripping" is very real. Either it's the Max-DM, or the Steriods, Steroids or the…

Xmas is canceled postponed. Dale has COVID. He is marooned upstairs. I keep thinking of the Anne Frank house. I listen to his footsteps upstairs. Pound. Pound. Pound. An occasional crashing sound that is actually nothing, maybe a shoebox slipping absently into the floor. I hear his coughing, coughing, coughing traveling down the stairs. I hear all his small and large movements existing entirely apart from me. This is what it must sound like for him when things are ordinary, me…