I am weary.
I have so much to write.
To scrub out of the moldy grooves in my brain.
Exorcise from the bricked-up prison of my own lousy fucking perspective.
I’m angry to bursting.
I wanna line em all up and knock em all down. There’s so much bullshit. So. Much. Stupid.
And, I’m completely fucking tapped out.
I’m sick. I’m tired. I’ve been “sick and tired of being sick and tired” for decades. I’m tired of fighting.
I’ve “tied a knot in the end of my rope” and swung from it for years, uninterrupted.
I haven’t had that thing that you steadily employed people call a vacation since I can’t remember when.
Trips in recent years:
- To Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN, to confirm nothing worse than comorbid allergies, asthma, and depression.
- To Michigan to offer to move there to be near my parents after Mom’s diagnosis.
- To Michigan to visit a few times when they wouldn’t let me move there.
- To Michigan to watch my mom die.
Since then, Dad’s offered to buy me a condo, if I’ll just move to Michigan. No joke.
The way we’re living as a society is unsustainable.
(But, I’ve finally learned that one’s not my problem to fix. It’s damn sure my problem to fucking survive. Air pollution? Hello. Nutrient-dense foods, you say? Where? Spend time in nature? Again, where?)
The way I’m living is untenable. And that one’s on me.
Except, I don’t know a way out.
The only way out is through.
And through is exhausting as fuck.
I am weary in body. I must remain faithful in spirit, though.
How can you tell?
Because I’m still here.
This is not a cry for help.
Suicide is not an option.
Just a daydream.
It’s a vacation home in my mind. I indulge to visit only “when all else fails.”
If. Whatever.
I’m under care. I’m medicated. I see somebody weekly. I don’t have a plan. I’m not actively suicidal. I don’t have the kind of unbidden suicidal ideation that I used to enjoy. I’m not self-injurous.
Please don’t report me. I don’t want to end up in a psych ward in this state. I’ve seen Cuckoo’s Nest and Girl, Interrupted.
I learned to give that disclaimer the hard way.
In college, I was in the care of a newish counselor and let slip that I thought about suicide a lot. I participated in self-injurous behavior lite. And I didn’t care to be alive anymore.
I think she was super excited to have her first inpatient case. I was super excited to try a different seat on the merry ground.
My time at Happy Hills is quite another story. But as I’m no longer covered by Daddy’s cush corporate insurance, I’ll decline the return trip, thank you all the same.
They did have a fantastic art room, though. Just saying.
I’m fine.
In fact, my shrink says I’m doing remarkably well for my situation. Grief. Turns out the clinical code for that is Anxiety. Go figure.
Diagnosed with major clinical depressive disorder all my life. Long enough for it to change designation(s) in the DSM. And now, now, I’m diagnosed anxious.
And told that most bright, perceptive, awake, and aware people are.
Oh, gosh, Doc, stoppit, you’re making me blush.
Sometimes — but only sometimes — I’d give my good health just to be like those people who go to a Trump rally and think — no, they know, they Just Know — that this right here, mama, this is the High Point of the Rest of Our Lives. We gonna be telling our grandkids about this momentous day, ain’t we? The day we got to see Herr Trump in person. What an honor! Why, that man’s got the world by the balls and he ain’t taking no for answer.
We’re gonna get our country back and we’re gonna get it back goooood.
The joke would be on you, though — I don’t have good health to give.
