Standard disclaimers apply

After a while, you begin to question your sanity. You wonder if anyone has ever felt like this. Clearly, there is something deeply wrong with you. You wonder what the hell is wrong with you, why can't you just be happy dammit?? Why can't you just get out there and talk to people, without sounding like a boob, or shooting yourself in the foot? Why can't you get up off the couch to clean your house or go to the gym? What the hell is wrong with you?

You know these are the things that need to be done - things that "normal" people do every single day. What's wrong with you? What makes you so fucking special? Your problems are so great, so deep and wide that you can't come out of the funk (you refuse to refer to it any other way) and just do what needs to be done??

Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, for crying out loud!! What the hell is wrong with you??

You tell yourself that you're just lazy.

You tell yourself that you don't really like people anyway.

You tell yourself that you'll run tomorrow, or that your knees hurt, or that it won't do any good anyway.

You tell yourself that a bottle of wine every night is normal.

You eat too much and you drink too much and you don't sleep.

You spend too much money.

You cry at the most random times - walking through Barnes and Noble, watching "The Sopranos", sitting in traffic.

You wonder if this is what it feels like to lose your mind.

You try sometimes, to pick yourself up. You force a smile onto your face and you wear something pretty and you sleep in bed instead of on the couch with the TV on. You clean the catbox and the kitchen, and you pull out an old project and start kniting. Knit 5, purl 5, knit 5, checkerboard pattern.

But after a little while, an hour, a day, a week, it all just seems so stupid and pointless. The things that are pulling you down are still there - it doesn't matter how much knitting you do. The things you clean will just get messed up again. You can't get away from yourself, can't knit a big enough bag to pack yourself into and mail it off to Berundi.

Wouldn't that be nice? A nice long drive away from all your problems? Get in the car, drain your bank account and just drive, just go. But when you get there, then what?

Then what?

How long do you go, before you snap? Before you decide "ENOUGH!!!" How long? Six months? A year? Two years?

You imagine feeling like you're drowning for two years. You imagine this underwater feeling, this feeling of isolation, of watching the rest of world through a bizarre lens for another two years and you know the answer to "how long?"

You decide that something's gotta give.


This entry was inspired in part by recent events in my own life, and events in the Ex's life that I'm not really at liberty to discuss. But please don't read anything permanent-like into it. Like everything else on this site, it's just me glarging up words.