We all battle monsters. Real monsters. Monsters “from the id,” and those monsters that dwell in our subconscious. And of course, there are the monsters that are us.
Ever since the weather went from winter to warm, I’ve felt as if my back is against the wall and the demons are closing in. This is not the way I usually feel. I’ve been through a lot of crap over the years. Physically, mentally, socially. I’ve gone through enough rough patches to feel like “rough” is perfectly normal to be dealt with by wearing sturdy sandals.
This year my defenses were breached. Being attacked by a zillion poisonous, ravening caterpillars … while all I could do in response was hide indoors was a uniquely horrible experience which I hope never to repeat. It has taken a toll. I am mentally exhausted and more than a little freaked out.
The worst of the horror show is over, I know. The trees have been defoliated and are apparently recovering. There are a million or several million moths zooming about the humid air. If they were at least pretty, it would help.
Gypsy Moths aren’t pretty. They are little. Dull brown, taupe, or gray. Except for the non-flying females who are white. None of the moths do anything at this stage. After morphing into moths, they no longer eat. They lay or fertilize eggs, fly aimlessly here and there … then die.,
I can hardly wait.
That this could conceivably recur again next year makes me want to cry. I’m sure that we’ll survive, but somehow, it isn’t much of a comfort.
There’s much irony going around because on most other rational levels, life is going quite well. So why do I feel like a bad version of Macbeth is being staged in my head?