I’d been feeling crummy and disconnected all day.

Agitated.

But no amount of re-arranging of books or folding of laundry could make it go away.

I was trapped in my own skin, looking for a way out.

She asked about it but I was too ensnared in the bubble of discontent to take her offer. Instead I just said, everything’s fine. Nothing’s wrong. Just cleaning.

Then we went paddling in the bay together. Out past the break, we pushed through chop and wind. Our arms were sore with the stroking. Our faces wet with sea spray.

Afterwards, back in the car, we noted the windburn on our faces. It was good.

But as we drove, my funk came returned and I fell back in the stupor of irritation.

Then she asked: What’s your vision for how we’ll be going forward?

It was a simple joyful question.

But the voice of unhappiness called up from the well of despair: I don’t know. I guess we’ll just buy a house and die here.

And there it was, the sudden knife, swinging blindly out of nowhere from some deep part of myself that wants everyone to see my pain. Pay attention to me. See that I should be different, even if I’m not.

There it was.

And five days later I was apologizing for it, wondering where that being is that did that so I can root it out and kill it.