In the Meantime

I forgot to take my meds on Monday. All three of them. I remembered to my two night-time meds last night, but I forgot the third this morning as I rushed out the door to catch the bus.

Yesterday, I spent the whole day feeling sad and lonely and inexplicably weepy. Missing my meds helped, I’m sure, but I’ve been feeling it come on for about a week now. It rained most of the day – the sky was dark, the living room was dark even with all the lights on. The wind was enormously loud, whistling through the trees in the backyard and through the old windows that need new weather stripping. The sound cut through my brain, made it hard to think or concentrate on anything. I got no work done yesterday, and I really need to grade.

I like the rain, generally. Sometimes I love it. I love walking in it. I love napping during thunderstorms. I love curling up with tea and good book while it rages. But yesterday the gray light and the wind just made me even more morose and lonely.

Today I am inexplicably anxious. Considering taking my Xanax, or half of one anyway. My stomach is all twisted into knots. My brain feels hot. My finger cold. And I’m still sad and lonely and weepy.

I nearly texted The Woman Who Broke My Heart a couple dozen times last night. I don’t really know what I would have said. Small talk. Ask her how she’s feeling (without going into details, she’s having a really shitty couple of months). Tell her I’m lonely. Talk about my dissertation. Ask her to see Mockingjay with me, as no one else wants to go. I don’t know. But I didn’t text her. I resisted. I’m afraid to. I don’t want to bother her. I don’t want to bore her. I don’t want to make it obvious that after a year I’m still laughably hung-up on her.

That shouldn’t be something she has to know, or deal with, or feel guilty about (and she would feel guilty about it). That’s my problem, not hers. Something I just have to deal with.

But sometimes I’m afraid that in my effort not to be obvious and clingy, I go too far in the other direction. I stop communicating altogether, and maybe she’ll think I don’t want to be friends anymore, which is categorically not true. But the longer I stay silent, the more awkward it feels to suddenly reach out and talk again, out of the blue.

In the meantime, I’m still sad and lonely and weepy. In the meantime, I still feel hung-up on her. In the meantime, I still feel trapped by my choices, and also by my family and all the things they force on me that I didn’t choose. I feel stuck, mentally, emotionally, physically. I itch and burn to be away, to be gone. And I don’t understand why I can’t “unstuck” myself.

In the meantime, I feel guilty. Guilty about the work I should be doing right this minute. Guilty about missing my meds occasionally. Guilty about feeling bad again despite the fact that the meds had genuinely been helping. Guilty about whining when so many people have it so much worse. There was an attack in Paris. There are people dying in Syria. I walked past a homeless person bundled up and asleep on the sidewalk on my way into work this morning. And I nearly burst into tears as I passed him/her. But what good do my tears do this person? And what right have I to be so sad with a roof over my head, and food in my pantry, and a job – even a low-paying one? I spend my life in a haze of sadness and guilt and obligation, and I am tired.

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