insect heads

Straight ahead.  Eyes forward.  Don't flinch.  Listen, smile and nod.  20 minutes in the car, and I don't think we made eye contact until right before she got out.  Think of something else.  Think of something else.  

It's none of my business.  I don't want to know.  It's your life.  I'm happy for you.  Good luck with everything.  I'm sure you'll do well.  It's been nice to know you.

I wish sometimes I had the courage to talk to a professional about what I'm dealing with and how I deal with it.  I'm sure I'm like all the other patients who think their troubles are unique to them and them alone...only to learn that there's a proven, uniform way to properly deal and join the ranks of the well adjusted.  I'm about 80% well adjusted.  The rest is a shadowy corner filled with complex webs of emotions and memories and delayed reactions to life's unending conga line of surprises.  It's a fucking mess, that 20%.  

Most of the time, I'm fine.  Fine as fine can be.  Move along, there's nothing to see here.  Sure, I don't like to talk...and I wear a pretty serious face most (if not all) of the time...but I'm a good guy.  I try.  But when the darkness slips it's icy glove over my existence...and fills me with goosebumps and stiff joints and shaky legs...and my stomach gets twisted into soft knots...then I'm not fine.  

About as far from fine as can be.