Climb, Fall

Have you ever been so emotionally overwrought that the thought of exiting your bedroom fills you with dread? The job is going to be so difficult to reach, it might as well be at the peak of Mt. Everest.
So you climb.
Out of bed. Into the shower.
Still climbing.
Into some clothes. Into the car.

Suddenly you realize: If you actually set this car in motion, it's taking you over a cliff. The kind of cliff where, instead of falling, you find yourself cursing out co-workers; slamming the Xerox machine so hard you break the lid; hurling merchandise (a boot) at the boss's head; expressing unsolicited opinions like ," why should I care? We'll all be dead in a hundred years anyway", and similarly unacceptable workplace behavior- most, if not all of which will get you canned.

Climb time again.
Out of the car. Up the stairs.
Climb.
Out of work clothes. Into sweats.

In a calm and level voice call work and tell them you are taking a personal day. Offer no explanation. Get off the phone as quickly as possible.

Because here comes the snot, and with it the tears. The fetal position and the weird sounds of pain. When this happens, it's better to be alone than with people who don't care or understand.
Eventually, it passes.

That was this morning.
But I had a warning.
I'm Popeye th...

But I did.
It's been over seven years since she died, but for some reason I've been thinking about my Mom a lot lately. Our dream-conversations have been pretty intense. Last night I was introducing her to Esmeralda, when there was a banging at the door- (this taking place at my mom's old house) - it was Esmeralda's boyfriend, not her real-life one, but in dream context it was obvious. He pushes me aside , grabs her by the arm and starts dragging her out the back door, towards the woods.
I can't move. I try to run , but I'm stuck. I hear Mom say ,"be careful tomorrow". Tomorrow?
Finally, I break whatever bond was holding me and I'm out in the dark woods.
Wait. There they are. I'm too late.

There's enough moonlight for me to see what he's done.

He has to die for that.

I don't know where this shillelagh came from, or even why my dream-self calls it a 'shillelagh' and not a club, but I start hitting the boyfriend in the head with it. I'm screaming words I don't even understand. Pure berserker fury. I roll his prone body over so I can hit him in the face.
It's my ex-step-father.
I force myself to wake up before I fall off this cliff.