The rest of the day will likely be filled with packing and RX-picking-up and trying to figure out what to take and what to leave.
I am puzzled for several reasons:
1) I never go away for 7 days.
2) I usually pack two weeks in advance "just in case" (in case what, I'm not sure--in case Airtran calls and says that pre-boarding has begun a week early, for example).
3) I'm in recovery.
When you are in recovery from [[pick one: (a) hell, (b) a lifetime of trauma, (c) addiction of your choice, (d) recovery, (e) all of the above]], every little thing in life looks different.
I approach everything differently now--including nice things, like vacations--and because I'm NOT ALL BETTER YET, this "in the midst of things" phase, which I expect to last until I'm 73, means I seldom do anything the way I used to.
For better and for worse, recovery turns your life backassward. For me, it means that since I don't catastrophize as much as I used to (WHAT IF, WHAT IF, WHAT IF fill-in-your-own-worst-case-scenario), I have become highly disorganized.
Without worry, I have no compass.
When panic was my friend, I was much more functional. I was a good employee because I had always been the one to fix things and be just exactly who others needed me to be. I had no opinion of my own, but I was a reliable sponge who could recite back in perfect form anything I learned, anything I heard, just the right way, on time and on budget, every time.
I was a good friend not because I really really liked you, because I wasn't sure what that felt like. I was a friend because I made you laugh and it made me feel good to make you feel good, and besides, I needed you to like me.
And of course, I packed two weeks in advance for every trip because I might forget one single pill, or one single sock, or one single tampon, which might trigger a panic attack, so to avoid said "mights" I did everything ahead of time. Just right. On time and on budget.
I wrote my college papers in advance, in case I might get sick and feel too sick to do a good job and get the A I managed to get in every class, every semester, for four years, except that one lousy speach class. Damn B+.
I always planned a way out--in case I didn't feel well, got anxious, or some pre-conceived and pre-mourned disaster happened, say someone died and I had to be checked into the nearest mental facility for IV Valium.
Which all is to say, except for every other Tuesday, I'm not that person of impending doom anymore. AKA: I'm in recovery.
Which is to say, I don't know how to go on vacation now.
Because I don't know how to pack when I don't pack two weeks ahead of time.
I don't know how to go pick up prescriptions today that I would have had packed in a ziplock bag in the inner suitcase pocket two weeks ago.
I don't know how to travel without worrying about getting back in case someone dies.
This is all very new.
I have started laughing about it.
I think that's a good sign.
Jenna is now putting the toys that she wants to take in a laundry basket. Even though we don't talk about terrorism much, she's done enough travel that she knows the security drill. She said: "Mom, I want to put all my toys in this laundry basket first, then you do a security check, and THEN I'll put them in my suitcase."
Lest her best Brown Barbie set off the alarm at the x-ray machine.
Be well all.