Home Sweet ... eh

A lovely time was had in Oregon.  I got to hang out with my mom and my brother, Sam, my cousins and my aunt and uncle, who were celebrating 40 years together.  They live on a mountain outside of Ashland, a little town in southern Oregon that reminds me of Boulder, but with 40 times more pretentiousness among its citizenry.  In the middle of a largely rural, poor, conservative part of the state, it's a little enclave of liberal, high-falutin', edu-ma-cated, Shakespeare-watchin' hippiedom.

People walk around wearing red shirts with commie-looking stars on them that say "The People's Republic of Ashland."  Everybody recycles and eats organic everything.  We stayed at a little bed and breakfast close to downtown.  The innkeeper moonlights as a science fiction writer and handed out business cards listing herself first and foremost as a "philosopher."  That should tell you all you need to know.

It's actually kind of annoying.  At one point Sam talked about having the urge to walk into a yoga-ish store and ask where he could buy a gun.

But we had fun.  I got to sleep in, uninterrupted by crying or "Mama, I want to snuggle you," I read my book for hours on end, I exercised.

I thought I was looking forward to being home.  J had a great weekend with the kids, and the house was clean, and dinner was waiting for me.

But the minute I tried to settle down, I was wracked by overwhelming anxiety attacks.  Flushes of panic all night long.  Heart and brain racing and unable to relax.  I finally fell asleep at 6 this morning and slept for an hour.  The only positive was that I had time in the middle of the night to watch my recording of Mad Men, which was phenomenal (as ever).

I'm still feeling fried and anxious and panicky.  But I have no idea why.