Down & (Hopefully Not) Out Somewhere In Canada
Ain’t irony a bitch? I woke up this morning to being referred to as hilarious by Bonnie Joy Sludikoff in her article about Medium writers and being able to identify them by their tone.
Maybe I am hilarious in print, or at least somewhat charmingly sarcastic and snarky. But here I am, an online chuckle fest at the very moment I feel less hilarious than I have in about 8 years.
It pisses me off because I really thought I had my depression under control. And yes, I understand it’s an illness. And yes, I understand it’s not my fault. And all the rest of it, you know, this too shall pass, blah, blah, blah.
And so fucking what?
The last time I felt this low, I hid under my covers for about a month. I’m trying really hard not to do that right now.
Why?
Because the last time I did it, I hated myself for it.
But why would I hate myself for doing something I needed to do for myself?
Well, that’s the head game, isn’t it?
I feel, quite honestly, like doing nothing. And I mean nothing, nada, zilch. I know I should mop the floors. I know the bathroom could use a cleaning. I see the laundry that needs doing. Instead, I sit in front of my TV, watching an Azerbaijani couple cook food outside on YouTube. And when that gets too taxing, there’s always naptime.
I also know I have to work. I have to write. If I don’t write, we don’t eat. Not that we don’t eat today. We do, today, we eat off what I wrote yesterday, or last week, or last month. But if I don’t write now, what do we eat next week or next month?
I’ve been managing to do the bare minimum to function as a respectable human. The dog gets fed. He gets his daily walks and trips to the dog park. We eat. The dishes get done (eventually) and we have some clean clothes. We’re not living in our own squalor — yet. But even that…
