I'm going to put out there in real words something I've been hinting at for the past week.
I'm not functioning especially well in the wake of everything that's happened to me this year.
No, really.
So, today, I'm driving home from work, a day that felt like it was suspended in fog flavored Jell-O, and I have the radio tune to 70s on 7 XM. Because I hate Sweeney Todd. Sorry, I just do. I also hate Phantom of the Opera. Clutch your pearls if you must.
Anyway, I'm driving and all of a sudden Paul Simon's Mother and Child Reunion comes on, and I just start sobbing. I cried from Old Hickory Boulevard to Wedgewood Avenue, and didn't stop until several minutes after I came in the house and collapsed on the bed. It's not that I was ready to stop, I just ran out of tears.
So, I don't know. Eventually, it won't be like this. Eventually. And once I have all this car stuff behind me and I'm out of rentals and back to normal, I can stop fretting about that, too.
At some point, every day won't hurt as much as today.
I know I'll never completely stop missing Lola. I know that some day, I'll have another dog, and that it will also die, and that it will hurt just as much as this.
So, I'm a little slow on the uptake at the office, or I'm not at Monday night Zumba, or my witty banter is neither especially witty nor the full speed of banter...
I'll be OK. I promise. Sooner rather than later, if possible.
But I need to focus my energy on just getting through the coming days and weeks. And frankly, it's fucking exhausting. Yes, that's depression. I know. I already take meds for it. Yes, maybe I do need to reconsider my dosage. I'm on it.
So, that's all I really have for now.
And dammit, I know I'll feel better if I just go to Zumba tonight, but I'd really rather take a hot bath, swig some NyQuil and try again tomorrow.
But I'm going to Zumba. Dammit.
ae
I'm not functioning especially well in the wake of everything that's happened to me this year.
No, really.
So, today, I'm driving home from work, a day that felt like it was suspended in fog flavored Jell-O, and I have the radio tune to 70s on 7 XM. Because I hate Sweeney Todd. Sorry, I just do. I also hate Phantom of the Opera. Clutch your pearls if you must.
Anyway, I'm driving and all of a sudden Paul Simon's Mother and Child Reunion comes on, and I just start sobbing. I cried from Old Hickory Boulevard to Wedgewood Avenue, and didn't stop until several minutes after I came in the house and collapsed on the bed. It's not that I was ready to stop, I just ran out of tears.
So, I don't know. Eventually, it won't be like this. Eventually. And once I have all this car stuff behind me and I'm out of rentals and back to normal, I can stop fretting about that, too.
At some point, every day won't hurt as much as today.
I know I'll never completely stop missing Lola. I know that some day, I'll have another dog, and that it will also die, and that it will hurt just as much as this.
So, I'm a little slow on the uptake at the office, or I'm not at Monday night Zumba, or my witty banter is neither especially witty nor the full speed of banter...
I'll be OK. I promise. Sooner rather than later, if possible.
But I need to focus my energy on just getting through the coming days and weeks. And frankly, it's fucking exhausting. Yes, that's depression. I know. I already take meds for it. Yes, maybe I do need to reconsider my dosage. I'm on it.
So, that's all I really have for now.
And dammit, I know I'll feel better if I just go to Zumba tonight, but I'd really rather take a hot bath, swig some NyQuil and try again tomorrow.
But I'm going to Zumba. Dammit.
ae
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