Worry,
I swear, will put me into an early grave.
Apart
from letting the dogs in and out and changing the litter boxes, I
spend all of Labor Day weekend - all of it, every single minute -
curled up on the love seat in retreat and listening to rather than
actually watching tv. I think about all the things I could/should
and have been planning to do for months but nothing seems worth the
effort and I end up sleeping away hour after hour for three straight
days. It seems dull and pointless to do anything else. A part of me
know this is unhealthy but a larger part doesn't care.
“Do
you ever think about hurting yourself?” I remember the doctor
asking just a few days ago.
“Not in the way you mean,” I'd said maybe a little too quickly, “I
lean toward it but I have two dogs and four cats to think of.
Although I have come to think that there are worse things than
dying.”
Although
I was trying to be honest, It wasn't quite true. The fact is that I
do think about suicide more often than I want to admit but generally
as something down the road. For the present time, the love of and
responsibility to my animals keeps me grounded. They matter more to
me than anything is this life and leaving them is unthinkable.
Three
weeks of anti depressants later, the darkest thoughts and worries
have eased somewhat but the anxiety remains, coming and going
randomly and often leaving me with a fluttery, stage fright kind of
feeling - as if I've done something very wrong and am just waiting to
get caught. I feel irrationally scared and nervous but I can't seem
to pin it down to anything specific, it's everything and nothing at
the same time.
It's
hard to fight things in the dark.
