There’s no denying it. I have fear in my gut. It is raw and edgy and has me not thinking straight. It’s actually a generalized anxiety. There’s no reason for it other than that I don’t like my life and I keep thinking, I could end it now. Just because I’m a pretty woman doesn’t mean that I can’t just up and kill myself. If I tried, though, I’d end up in the hospital. With major bills to pay off and a long hospital stay. Hopefully. Me and one of my friends that I met in the hospital, we joke about it. Being in the hospital, even though they tell you what to do most of the time, is great. You get three meals a day. Your medications are dispensed to you on time. You don’t have to take care of yourself because most of it is done for you. That’s what I need. A nice long stay in a loving home where I’m looked after and nothing is expected of me other than to eat and to shower. I could do with that for six months and then some. I desperately want to be taken care of. What’s so wrong with that?
Over the past weeks, I’ve been able to deal with work less and less. My productivity is waning. I take longer breaks and often find myself staring at the computer thinking about something else other than work. I eat the same thing for lunch every day and at $10 a day the food is a major expense. Most people at work bring their own lunch. Today after my first hour at work I snuck out to my car to take a nap in the back seat because I didn’t get enough sleep last night. Tonight I can finally sleep again for 12 hours or more. I didn’t finish my daily tasks at work and it took me almost two weeks to get through a relatively short call list because I wasn’t focusing. I hate answering the phone in a cheerful voice. At some point someone is going to notice that I hate my job. It will show. I took an extra half hour at lunch.
I am dehydrated and poorly nourished. The salmon I eat at lunch fills in for the nutrition gaps I would otherwise have. I don’t exercise even though I recently committed to a year-long gym membership. Just in case…
I left work early. I basically didn’t work today even though I was there. Just because I passed my 90 days doesn’t mean they cannot fire me at their discretion. I’m just trying to find a way to live. Hanging on for dear life. “Do your job with passion, find a way” I was told recently by someone who is not in-the-know. He doesn’t know that a year ago I was undergoing ECT treatment because I desperately wanted to die. Now I don’t always want to die.
Theater friend. He knows my struggle. Why does he then berate me every once in awhile? Make fun of my mental illness? Joke at my expense? I don’t understand it. Maybe it’s because he’s fond of me and I won’t return the affection. I’m a hard one to get through to. When a man talks to me, I have to assume it’s because they want something. It’s not just for the pure pleasure of having a conversation. They’re always trying to steer somewhere that I just don’t want to go to.
I thought I would be using fake names for everyone in my life for the blog’s sake, but it’s just too difficult to keep track of which name I used for whom, so I’ll just have to give nicknames and other references.
I’ve been reading a book. At work they have a library of discarded paperbacks that anyone is allowed to pick up and take home. I finally took advantage of it since I’m too scared, somehow, to go to the actual library. There would be more variety of books elsewhere, but I’m going with what I can handle. I can handle taking a book off of a shelf while I’m at work, and slipping it into my purse. I think it’s better than sleeping. I was thinking of going home and sleeping tonight, right after work, or pretending to sleep and lying in my bed with eyes closed waiting for bedtime to come. It’s not productive, but it’s my way of coping. I hide in my bed. Even if this home isn’t mine, the bed is, and I feel it’s the safest place I have. In bed, I don’t have to talk to anyone. I barely have to be alive. I need to be back there now.