A wise friend has told me not to do that to myself,
that thing where I conclude that I personally was just too happy.
It's tempting to eat blame with both hands, though, when work
went so smoothly the day before my day off, which was lovely.
Logically, that has nothing to do with my nightguard, shattered,
and waking up to find my husband on the floor. Happiness
does not lead to the Emergency Room any more than
dieting does to weightloss (when one's feelings evidently include gluten).
I won't extrapolate, won't engage in anorexia of the soul
and turn big problems into emotional asceticism. Instead I'll drink tea,
make smoothies with leafy greens, engage in defiant little
acts of self-care until this too passes, slow and painful like a stone.