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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