Bored with myself

I haven't blogged in forever because it's just too boring. I have nothing to say but to bemoan my unemployed state and my near-constant depression.

I don't know why I call it unemployment, though. I forget that I work a lot at the shelter. I guess that's what depression does to you; you forget about the good things you have.

I need to remember, though, because right now it's about all that's keeping me going. I worked out and applied for some jobs today, which momentarily lifted my spirits, but then I couldn't figure out what else to do with my day, so I laid on the floor, watched TV, and napped. It was too hard to even carry on a conversation with Tim when he called. I watched the clock, cuddled with the kitties, waiting for it to be late enough to go to work.

When it was finally time to get in the car and drive up north, my spirits lifted. I walked in the door and everything felt right. If I feel this way about a part-time job, god. I can't wait to be more fully employed.

Alone

There is a certain asceticism to being single, and being alone. My meals are simpler, because I usually only go all out when I have someone else to cook for. There isn't bike gear strewn across the dining room table, or other people's paperwork. Just mine. I can even push the bed against the wall since I am the only person getting into it.

It's everything that I loved about living by myself. Quietude.

But this time, instead, none of that matters. I feel like there is a vise across my chest, and it is only barely working to keep everything inside. It's hard to focus on what I need to do for myself, like set up temp work and health insurance, and remember to give Fergus his daily pills, or even on conversations while I'm in the middle of them.

I find myself wanting to interrupt the conversation and make casual acquaintances intimate friends with my confidences: "I don't know how I'm going to survive without Tim." It's been one night of tossing and turning, sleeplessness because his presence next to me in bed is my sleep aid; and 153 more to go.

Today a customer service rep called for him. "My husband doesn't live here currently," I said, wondering how uncomfortable I was making the caller, with my insinuation that something was up, and slightly enjoying it. But then I felt guilty, so I told him about Tim's summer into fall job, that he wouldn't be home until October, and then I realized I was telling too much, but I couldn't stop, because all I wanted to do was talk about Tim. I notice this happens when I miss him; I try to insert him into every conversation I have--I suppose so then it's like he's with me again.

Anything, really, to relieve this punch in the chest I feel every time I breathe.