I don’t know why writing has to feel so difficult, but I know I can’t comfortably sit down and express my thoughts or even think with the smell of rank, piss-soaked litter boxes and traces of Derby’s behavioral issues all over the house. It takes me around half an hour to an hour every morning to clean up all of those spots, the boxes, feed them, change out their water, and then tend to the cats outside. It’s a lot of work to make your place not smell like you have five cats and dog… Next thing I know it’s time to go to work.
The load of everything is getting heavier and heavier on my shoulders. Half the time I wake up with a flurry of butterflies in my chest. I don’t want to get up. I think of all those litter boxes that need to be cleaned and bowls that need to be filled. I think of having to scare the outside cats away so my dog can go out back to pee. There’s dishes everywhere, and the floor is covered in litter grit with tiny receipts and napkins scattered about. There’s figurative shit over every surface in this house. I keep putting it all away, and somehow it finds its way back again. The cats don’t help, because this is more shit for them to knock on the floor.
I’ll spend all morning correcting these little annoyances, but after a while, those little annoyances start to become part of the problem, because it’s only me doing all of this, and then afterwards it’s time to shower, get some semblance of a lunch together, and head off to the place that makes me most miserable.
My hands are shaking, and I’m not sure if it’s the morning anxiety, or if this is because I’ve been drinking so much lately, or if it’s because I haven’t eaten or haven’t taken my medicine yet. I take Duloxetine, which is the generic form of Cymbalta. I have to say it’s helped better than anything else, and I’m sure it would work much, much better if I didn’t drink so much. In fact, I can actually attest to that. I went nearly 45 days without drinking, just to see if I could, and I could see and feel a huge difference in my physical and mental state. The downside to this medicine, is it can make me sleepy, and if I miss a dose or go too long before the next one I will become incredibly itchy. I think of the itchiness as a reminder to take my medicine. It doesn’t kill all anxiety, and like I said it would probably work better if I didn’t drink so much, but Jesus it sure is a night and day difference being on medicine than being off it. Unfortunately, all I want to do these days is sleep and drink, and dream of places far away.
I wish I knew what to do. I have so many plans for things and places I want to go, and I can’t help but feel alone in this. I’ve vocalized my frustrations and needs and can’t help but feel like they’re falling on ears that are only half listening. It’s hard not to feel taken for granted. The past few weeks have been awful. I barely see her anymore. She wakes up, gets immediately on the computer and into groups, and with MMO’s there’s no pause button; there’s no having everyone stop mid-fight for a quick chat. I come home from work, and there she is again, but this time in a raid and when the headphones are on, I know it’ll be even more difficult to get her attention.
I come home from work and the house is a mess. Nothing I asked for got done, and I really don’t ask for much. There’s nothing prepared for me to mange on when I get comfy, and it’s usually up to me to come up with the recipe ideas, compose the grocery list, and do most of the cooking. The house reeks of shit and cat piss.
Since she’s in the raid, she’s on the good computer; the only computer I can play the games I enjoy on. My method of escape is confined to this laptop which may play games from the early 2000’s just fine, but I know there’s no way I am getting ARC or H1Z1 booted up on this system. I always get the laptop. It’s like getting the knock-off player 2 controller, that always seems to have a loose screw rattling around in there somewhere, when you go to a friend’s house (I was the older sibling, so growing up I did not have to use the shitty controller unless I was feeling nice).
I was talking to my co-worker Cole (name changed) about laying off the sauce for a bit. He’s in a bit of similar rut, only he’s single and lives with crazy roommates and has an entirely different life skill set than I do. He’s one of those oddly zen kind of guys, like the main guy in the Shawshank Redemption. He’s fun to talk to because I think he enjoys my odd quirks and finds me interesting to talk to as well. That’s always nice to have because typically my chats with people sound very surface and don’t get very far and I can’t seem to find the proper balance of actually working and getting work done, and socializing. For me, the IM chat is much easier for me to express myself. The vocal co-workers who like to spin around in their chairs in the aisles and chat are fun, but they tend to like to make comments to get me to turn around, even say your name, but I’m typically absorbed in either my work or something I’m looking at and so I only part way hear it, but I don’t like having to turn my music off or pause what I’m doing to see what the joke was. It’s always the same, pull my earbuds out, “What? Someone say my name?” It’s tedious. I know they mean well, but it’s tedious and I try not to let that aspect of it to me show.
Anyway, I’ve had Johnny Cash’s version of “Hurt” stuck in my head all week. It finally popped up on my playlist, so I’m hoping maybe I won’t continue to hear it for the rest of the week. Not that I think it’s a bad song, I love it, but the thought of having that song running through my head constantly makes me feel a little pathetic.
I guess I’ve been pretty depressed these past couple of months. I’m not sure when things are going to turn around, but all I can do is focus on myself if I want to stay afloat.
It just hurts.