This morning, I walked to my computer desk, my cup of coffee in hand. The $200 psychiatrist bill that I had left there the night before was on top of my computer. I’d left it there, purposely. I will pay it. If I didn’t do it first thing, I would never do it.
Money is just money. I can make it back. Easily.
The essay I began last night is half-finished, saved in My Documents. Maybe I should be working on that. But I just can’t. Not right now.
I enjoy helping people, I’d said, a few nights ago. Helping them with no agenda. It makes me feel closer to God.
Over the weekend, my meds ran out. I’d called to refill them on Friday. I called the doctor’s office on Monday, asking if they could please push through approval for my prescription. The receptionist asked why I had run out so soon. I explained to her that the doctor had increased my dosage when I saw him a week ago. Oh, she had said, and then she forwarded my call to him. He sounded dazed when he answered. He always sounds like he has a cold. “No problem, I’ll push that through for you,” he said. I thanked him. “Uh-huh,” he said, and hung up.
It is Sunday. I have called Walgreens three times. I can’t bring myself to call him back. I’m too tired. I don’t feel like fighting anymore. I write a check for the bill amount. Don’t think crappy thoughts, I tell myself, making sure my handwriting on the check and the envelope is as neat as possible.
I give myself Reiki, holding my hunk of rose quartz in my hand. I cry. I listen to a meditation on loving kindness and cry some more.
I post listless updates on Twitter. Someone will see them eventually, but it won’t change anything.
I don’t need to talk. I don’t need to know I’m loved. I’ve done a lot of both, and here I still am.
The darkness has its mouth open. I open my arms to receive, willing myself to be crushed under the weight of this year.
I’m too tired to fight it anymore.
Please, don’t be scared for me.
Don’t try to fix me.
Just let me be.