progress

Nasty flashbacks today. The boss wasn't in a good mood, and, although I know, and have known since I met him, that he's not the kind to take it out on anyone else, I had a knot in my stomach making me feel sick all day and I couldn't breathe. I kept reliving old scenes from another job -- not not so much old scenes as the moments between those scenes, those quiet things I would do to keep my head down and out of the way of others' tempers, most particularly standing at the copier using its noise to screen my upset breathing and hoping to God no one would notice or need me -- that sometimes had my hands shaking, and sometimes sent a rise of panic surging through me so that I had to force deep breaths and tell myself, It's not happening now. This is different. You're fine.

Fortunately these days don't come often, but this one was a doozy. I rolled the window down the whole way home just so I could breathe the steady rush of free air. The evening went much better, and tomorrow will be fine.

But I'm glad today is over. I know these little flashes of badness are part of healing, part of being strong enough to cope with unpleasant memories heretofore blocked, and therefore stand as a mark of progress rather than regress. Still. Ugh. Not fun.

In other news, I'm working on a little fiction writing again, starting off by rewriting a story I'd written my senior year of college -- the idea holds volumes of promise but the mechanism failed -- and I'm pleased with the progress I'm noticing already in my fictional prose in that space between now and five years ago. It helps that I'm not perpetually pissed off anymore, and helps too that I've spent so long writing nonfiction that my fiction has improved a little in clarity and concision. I think a smidgen of wryness has crept in too, to salt the earnestness which I can never expel.

So all in all, on my end, good.