I worked for an hour and a half today, which is also precisely the amount of time it takes me to drive to and from work. And by “worked” I mean “stared mindlessly at the computer refreshing gmail and facebook” and doing little else. I finally went home and just took a sick day, where “sick” means “unable to deal with the fact that I am alive, much less awake.” I went back to sleep as soon as I got home.
Maybe I pushed it too hard at the gym the other day. Maybe the depression is worse again. Maybe my immune system has finally just decided to quit playing this game and I am stricken with some sort of funk. My entire body aches, I am cold all the time, my stomach is in knots. I am on the porch in 70 degree weather in three layers of clothing, huddled on the chair, chain-smoking to avoid eating. My body feels heavy and difficult to move, not in the sense that I feel “fat” (or, at least, any more “fat” than normal), but in the sense that it is just too much of an effort to reach across my body to the ashtray, so the ashes fall at my feet.
I want to sleep for the next week. I want to avoid life and people and sunlight. I want to forget that all of this is happening.
Ten days from now, I’ll be in Utah. I don’t want to go. I don’t want my parents to waste their money. I promised I would be compliant and “work the program” but I don’t know how in the heck I’m going to do that when I”m struggling to choke down two mini-meals a day.
I want to run away, but hardly have the energy to make some sort of daring escape. So I curl up in my dark room, hoping for sleep, hoping that I don’t wake up.
Or, perhaps, to wake up and find myself in mid-2009 and all of the past three years were just some sort of extended nightmare.