I don’t have the energy to write, to put the jumble of thoughts in my mind into words that make sense.
The scissors didn’t slip and cut my hand and I didn’t feel disappointed at the lack of the expected tinge of pain and blood; what scared me is the realization that there are times this occurrence has caused disappointment.
I’m sleeping more than 10 hrs/day and still wake up feeling tired and sleep-walk through my day.
Food doesn’t excite me, not even the thought of a well-made chicken steak with a side of mashed potatoes and steamed veggies in my favorite pub.
My work tires me out, unless it’s such that there’s no time in between my patients to actually remember myself; forgetting myself feels better than the other way around.
Not much interests me. Half-read novels, empty-other-than-the-title-slide presentations, piles of unpressed clothes line my week and as time goes on, they become further causes of stress.
My whiskey is beside me and my coke; but, I’m lacking the energy to make myself a peg and so, the dust collects- until the next Saturday night, until the next monthly holiday; until the next reason to down it with the unreasonable lump in my throat.
My life is, if I start ticking off boxes, pretty good. Things in their places and others will eventually fall into theirs. I have no reason to feel this way. That scares me too.
Medication, as I would know, has side effects I’m not particularly fond of. I’ve worked hard for the weight I’ve lost and I’ve just started enjoying looking at myself in the mirror again. I’m already sleeping enough for two of me. I’m fucking up answers to simple questions and memory is slipping my mind.
But, my mind keeps going there…the knowledge available at my fingertips- how can I use it to better myself? How can I abuse it to feel better about myself?
I don’t miss the paradox there; searching for answers for a mind going wonky, using the mind going wonky is not ideal. But, I’m sleepy again and don’t have the energy to look beyond the wonky and meet the obvious.
So, the plan for tonight?
Maybe I’ll be able to convince my homunculus to lift a hand and pour myself a drink.
Maybe I’ll cry when I finish writing this- partly happy tears that I was able to write at all.
Maybe I’ll fall asleep to a rousing Ted talk about dreaming your dreams.
Or maybe I’ll just stare at the screen in my hand for a few more hours, until my eyelids grow heavy and drop, of their own volition, so I won’t have to make the effort of closing them myself.
And maybe…when I open them tomorrow, it’ll be to a better day?