As much as the arrival of Month 7 was celebrated with all the pomp and fervour I could muster, so alternately Month 8 passed unceremoniously, barely noticed by the conscious mind. I have reached a point of passive apathy. It is like my libido has abandon ship in search of more plentiful harbours. I spent most of the month working on the road, which is always enjoyable and helps the time pass more quickly. Mostly, I feel like I’m in a funk. The extreme highs and lows seem to have evened out. Perhaps this is because I had been away from therapy for a while, so my natural defences have had opportunity to rebuild their walls.
I’m exhausted. Even writing seems like work, which is usually very therapeutic. I have been working non-stop contract work for quite some time now and I’m slowing down. This makes me paranoid that I may not be as hirable, which then triggers a tailspin of self-doubt. What if I can never find another contract again?! I’ll be homeless. I shouldn’t spend any more money because I’m going to be living on the street in a couple weeks. I can’t believe I booked a trip overseas. I could save the money to stave off homelessness for another couple weeks. You know, that kind of irrational stuff. The funny thing is that I am doing really well in my career and have received many glowing recommendations from clients. Even if I were doing terribly, I have always managed to keep a roof over my head thus far.
Recently, mostly due to fatigue, I have been lusting after a punch-clock job that ends at the end of the work day. I could then spend my time off focused on my writing rather than all the other things that my current work demands. Not that I would, I do love my job, but the idea floats through my consciousness sometimes. My sister and I have discussed running away for a year and working just enough to cover basic expenses and make a go of writing careers. We still might. After all, a year isn’t so long (though, I have never been so aware of time passing as much as this year).
It’s quite funny. The year is flying by but dragging on is so many different ways. Work things are flying by and I can barely blink without a week having passed. Then on the other hand, it feels like it was 10 years ago that I started this year without sex. I can barely remember the sensation. This is also a new record for the longest time I have gone without kissing a man (because I cheated during this year!). I don’t even have a crush on anybody right now. It is a proverbial desert.
I drink alcohol straight now. No wasting time with mixing. Not that I drink much (not like I used to). But it helps. Sometimes. Dulls the sensation of nothing. Or at least compliments it. My therapist says this is my existential phase. I don’t like existentialism. The awareness of the futility of life doesn’t send rainbows shining through your window. I’ve been reading a lot of Hemingway as of late. I feel like he understood. I think that’s why he killed himself. Likewise with Sylvia Plath. There is an understanding. Now, don’t go phoning the suicide hotline. I’m not done with this world yet, but I get it. I can see why someone would. I’m of the opinion that death comes to us all in time. Life is the rarer gift. I may as well use what I have while I have it. No one knows what is beyond the curtain of death. I’ll find out when that journey comes due. There is no need to rush there. There is still so much yet unknown in this world.
Anyway, that’s where I sit right now. Tacit resignation. Could be worse!
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