I’m having one of those demoralizing weeks at work (actually, they’re all pretty demoralizing) where I wake up later each day, go in later each day, and flee a little earlier, each day. Where people hang up on me when I make myself answer the phone. Where people who don’t work in the office consider the office a free doggie day care for their neurotic canines, many of whom would make great case studies in separation anxiety. And to top it off, someone has just stolen my lunch from the office mini-fridge. We keep our office locked, so this narrows the field of suspects to the ten people with keys. This does not make me feel any better. This has pushed me over the edge, and I am so demoralized and completely bereft of blood sugar that I can barely type. Human beings are overrated.
Last night I told my therapist about the daily inner battle between my higher self and my lower self. My higher self knows that certain activities are almost guaranteed to bring me serenity: writing, reading, going to the gym, going to an AA meeting, talking with friends. The lower self, however, prefers lying in bed in front of the television, computer solitaire, Internet surfing, and screening phone calls. These activities are almost guaranteed to make me feel worse, but the lower self doesn’t care. The lower self is all about “let’s just do these things for an hour and relax”, knowing full well that four hours will pass and then it’s bedtime. After demoralizing workdays it’s a toss-up over who will win the evening; higher self certainly plans on winning, but lower self is a sneaky little cheat.
Okay, yes, I am Sybil. But you knew that by now. Cut me some slack.
I told my therapist that I didn’t think I could work another year at this job, assuming it will be at least that long before grad school. She gently suggested that I focus instead on getting through the next month, and letting a week with the space monkey give me a little perspective. She said it’s hard sometimes, to do all the things I do, alone. Two years ago today I moved out of the apartment I shared with the Ex. And I haven’t touched another man with anything resembling love in my heart since. It’s not like I need anyone to feel complete. But sometimes it helps. And why not? Don’t we all want someone? Someone who will smile when we enter the room? Ah, don’t answer. It doesn’t matter. I know what I want.