My mood is one of poor. I know it’s hard to believe because normally I’m so sunny.
I cried during work yesterday, and got panicked and sweaty, for about the 40th time. Afterward, I had to take a Xanax because I couldn’t, you know, right myself.
So that’s jarring, and I couldn’t quite shake the dread and anger and sadness of that, so I took a damn Xanax and got into bed with Little House in the Big Woods, as I always turn to my Little House books when things are at their worst.
Then I woke up at 6:00 because I’d already slept 8 hours at that point and was all, “Why am I so dizzy?” I’d totally forgotten.
But here’s the other thing that’s making me blue.
Three times lately, Edsel has fallen down. Twice on his way up the back steps–well, wait. Once on this way up the steps and once on the patio on his way toward the steps. Both times I convinced myself he had, like, tripped on something. A teensy banana peel.
But lately, when I wake up, he just flumps his tail on his dog bed but doesn’t get up. I know he’s dying to join me but I think it hurts too much, despite his medication. I’ve taken to getting on his bed with him in the morning. He used to always get on the bed with me when we woke up, so now it’s just my turn to join him, that’s all.
Today I got up I petted him awhile, got the violin leg going, then said, “Let’s go outside,” which is on his list of favorites, along with breakfast and humping Lily. But when he got up, he fell over. Just splat, right onto the hardwood floor.
I hate to be Scarlett O’Hara vomiting a radish and shaking my fist at the sky, but come on.
The anniversary of my car accident is coming up: August 19. Everything had been going OK up till then. But then I had a concussion and couldn’t read or watch TV or go on the internet for a month. OK, I said. OK. I can get through this. OK.
And I did. I shopped and listened to I think it was 7 audio books.
Then Edsel got diagnosed with congestive heart failure weeks after I got better. OK. I said. He might live with that for a long time.
OK. I can do this.
Then almost immediately after that I had the “I have to pee all the time” thing, and multiple doctor visits, and 6 tests for cancer, some of them excruciating. I was horrified for months. I woke up horrified, I worked horrified, I went to bed horrified.
The worst part about terrible things happening is the part where you have to keep going. You can’t just sit in a room sobbing while people bring you coffee.
Then we sort of figured out what was going on, I had surgery, and OK. So the surgery was harder than we thought it was gonna be. OK. I can just get through this time. Also, sometimes I still have the pee feeling. But OK. I can live with it.
Then there was a pandemic.
For six months I’ve holed up here in my house while half of you parade around with your reunions and parties and play dates while I wait it out because I can’t afford to fool around with it, nor do I wish to spread it to people worse off than me. There is an old lady in my neighborhood. I am dying to talk to her. I see her on her glider in the evening, reading the paper. I won’t talk to her, though, because if I got her sick I couldn’t live with myself.
OK, I say. This is a lonely dull time and not everyone in my country cares about others. OK. That’s just how things are, but OK. I’m a tad disillusioned with where I live, but OK. My theory is the loudest protestors are the most scared. The “it’s a hoax” people are horrified. I compare them to Fitz, the feral I fostered who was so mean. I knew it was just fear and had compassion.
Something about that dog falling down today put me at my limit. I cannot say it’s OK one more moment. I cannot say I can do this one more time. I can’t. I can’t fucking do this.
Fuck it. Fuck everything.
Fuck a huge bag of all of this shit. Fuck it.
And that’s my post for today.