I am going through one of those rare periods of despondency. During these times, everything seems pointless and grey. I just lie in bed when I'm not required to be at work or at some social function. I think about all of the ways things are wrong. I think about how every day is the same: a routine meant to fill out the day until I can fall asleep and be done with it. It's a slow march of calendar items until there is no more personal calendar.
When I got sick two weeks ago, I started feeling this way. It's easy to fall into examining your life when you are curled up in bed, wondering what you ate that made knives dance in and out of your abdomen. There's nothing but time and dramatic stomach-clutching, then.
(I'm still sick. I didn't know that I was capable of being sick in three different ways over two weeks, but I am! Fun discovery.)
I don't have much purpose to my days, other than to not die of poverty or weight-related illnesses, which spurs my activity. Before the storm, I took care of my grandmother, who had kidney failure, bad lungs, and heart failure, among other ailments. Someone depended on me to cook, to clean, to drive places, and to be around if something awful happened. I stanched her blood once when her dialysis port somehow came out. Another time, I helped her into the car and drove her to the ER when she got tangled in the sheets as she tried to get out of bed and fell onto the tile floor, breaking her arm. Someone needed me.
Not only did my grandmother need me, but she wanted me there. I made her laugh with my imitations. We read books together. We gossiped. I never made her feel superfluous, the way some other people did. She never made me feel like I was a burden or a pain in her ass, the way so many people make me feel. She and I needed each other equally. She was like my mama.
She passed away a year after the storm in a nursing home in another state. Today, I'm supposed to work on bleaching her dishes that D. and I recovered from the house. They still smell like floodwater and mold, all these years later. I think she's been on my mind because we've had this dishes-cleaning session planned for a week. I miss her still.
I never know how to get out of the "depths of despair," since it seems pointless to even try. I know I should do things that typically bring me joy until they actually bring me joy, but I don't feel like it. Since spring break is this week, I will sit outside in the sun until it burns all my sad energy away and leaves me content and sleepy. I will also investigate volunteering activities that work with my full-time schedule. (Few volunteering activities do. Organizations should really consider how many people who want to help others work at 9-5 jobs.) I will try to write, although it's scary for me right now.
I'm just so tired.