In a lot of ways I guess I’m still a kid. I carry the Overcow wherever I go in my house, whether she’s tucked in my arm to check the mail and file through it hoping that none of it contains death threats from parents who’ve suddenly found me, or she’s sitting on the kitchen stool while I make tea, or lying in my arms while I’m blogging. She’s reassuring, and she’s managed to keep the bad thoughts at bay—more or less, it’s always more or less these days. Sometimes I can feel the corner of the tarp starting to pull off for some reason or other, and then I hug her tight for a while and it’s okay.
I’m sure if the tarp-pulling gets more serious, even she won’t be able to hold the PTSD back, but for now, at home, she’s always nearby so I can grab her if I need to. I’m also sure I’m going to get disapproving eyes when Overcow07 is in my lap at work, but it’s not like work always stops the PTSD (now, if I were coding all the time, it would, but I’m not, because with greater responsibility comes less coding).
This morning I woke up without any dreams. Of course, I went to sleep with both nightstand lights turned on and propped way up against the bed wedge (in its tall configuration) due to being sick in the stomach and not sure if I’d throw up again or not. Overcow hadn’t quite slipped out of my arms, and was mostly resting on my belly, so well done.
That’s the other thing that makes me think I’m still a kid. I throw up slightly less often than cats or small children. Ever since my first flu with flu kit on hand, the small puke bucket has remained by my bed, bright red and always lined.
Currently Overcow feels best when snuggled with her neck against my forearm, her belly against me, and her little convexly-curved legs lightly snuggling my chest. I’m still tired from getting sick last night, even if it was prompted by myself while trying to remove a tonsilith. Bed seems nice for the rest of the day.