It's that "I don't have any right to complain about my life, but everything feels just a little bit off" sensation. It's a mild (REALLY mild) version of post-traumatic shock, after stepping back from the mine field that is my parents' life.
It's the sudden full force crashing return of all my rheumatoid arthritis symptoms, after their inexplicable absence in California -- going from being able to hop out of bed or chair at a moments notice to avert disaster to requiring my walker to make it to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
It's the "I have this really wonderful project (the mural for Southeast's Whitesburg campus) that I'm excited about starting, but I have to wait around for two weeks until the supplies arrive;" coupled with "I've finished all the prep for summer school classes two weeks ahead of time -- now what do I do?"
It's the "I'm so glad my cat (Booger) is better, but now I have to figure out how to get him to sit still for 100 ml of subcutaneous fluids twice a day for the rest of his life."
It's the aching desire to write, but the inability to marshal my thoughts in any coherent fashion.
It's an amorphous miasma that clings like our suddenly hot humid air; an undefined, vague, corrupting malaise.
It's time for BED!!!