Tuesday, August 25, 2020

Wanna know my secret?

My best pandemic secret is that I didn't need this long, dark night to lose everything. My work already suffered. I already couldn't pay my bills. I already spent most of my time in my apartment. My eating already went to shit. When I look at my scale or my bank account or my employer's latest comments about my job performance, I can lay zero blame at a plague's doorstep. It's all me.

It's not complicated. I just want to eat and sleep until I die. I wake up, I shower, I eat breakfast, I go back to sleep. I sleep as long as I can and once I can't sleep anymore I watch TV and play video games - anything but work. 

I need to work now, but I don't want to work now. I need to write about a comic book character who's going to be showing up in a movie sometime this year or next year or maybe in 2022 or who the fuck knows. But I don't want to. Even though I know nothing's open and I know I can't afford to pay this month's bills, I want to find a store and buy enough chocolate and peanut butter to kill a Klingon. I want to sleep and stay asleep. 

I owe so much fucking money to so many fucking people I may as well be the president. 

My back hurts. My shoulders hurt. All I can do is throw anti-inflammatories in my face and apply heat and ice and icy heat and hope it's enough to help me avoid an urgent care visit I can't afford.

I'm doing things. I'm on meds I can't afford. Maybe I should call the psych NP and ask for better or more meds, but I already owe her for my last appointment. I'm back in OA. I go to Zoom OA meetings. I like them better than in-person meetings actually. I don't know any of these people and haven't learned to dislike them yet. They're all in NYC and LA and Spain and Australia and beyond. I send my sponsor my food. I've lost a little weight. For two days in a row I've gone outside for walks, twice per day. Just like Jesse Owens.

Things have improved enough that when I tell myself everything's hopeless, a tiny sliver of me smells a lie. But sometimes that doesn't feel better. Sometimes hopelessness would be a comfort. Hope creates expectations. Expectations mean less sleep.

I'm not okay. I still haven't figured out any good reason for me to be alive other than someone has to feed my cats. But I'm doing the things I said I would do even though I hate every second.

I have to write about a comic book character now. I'd rather be sleeping. Not going to promise I won't go to sleep. My pillowcases are in the wash, but that won't stop me. I'll sleep with naked pillows. Just like Davy Crockett.  

No comments: