Doing Nothing, Feeling Bad
I am in hiding. It is Sunday, my almost-least favorite day of the week. I dislike it so much because of the acute pain I feel knowing that tomorrow is Monday, and I must go to work. Friday and Saturday are rapidly becoming un-favorites as well, not because I have to work but because I am supposed to work. My husband would like me to get some things done around the house.
What do you get when you have an irritable depressed person crossed with someone who has a hideous job that occupies almost all hours of the day and a lot of the nights, who has finally gotten out of work for the weekend? You get an irritable depressed person who is burned out, with zero motivation, who will do almost anything to avoid doing anything. I am basically useless on the weekend.
My favorite winter spot is the leather recliner in my husband’s office, which has the pleasure of his company plus a really toasty fireplace right at my feet. Its siren song is almost impossible to resist, combined with my humming laptop in my lap. The problem is, my husband is now acutely aware of all the hours that I spend doing absolutely nothing. And he wants me to do something. I think he feels it would be good for my sanity, and it would be much more fair than to allow him to do everything around the house.
In all fairness, I do some things. We finished all the laundry together yesterday. I wash and put away all the dishes. I spent the morning reading to our daughter, and would have spent longer doing it but my husband made us stop and do something else. I am thinking about some things to do. Granted, the house is a mess. A lot of that is due to my daughter, and it feels really futile to try and put that stuff away, because it occupies every room in the house, and if I put it away, she will just take it right back out. If I try to make her put it away, she just shoves everything under the couch, and thirty seconds later thinks she’s done. That’s a no win.
Every time I think about doing something, I just get so tired. And I just so don’t feel like doing it. I could tackle so many things. I could clean out the sunroom (but where would I put all those papers? And it’s so cold in there). I could clean out the bathroom, where there is a lot of stuff piled up. I could work on the attic, which is a perennial source of friction. All my craft stuff is up here, and my husband wants me to get rid of a lot of it. I don’t do much with it, but I don’t see parting with it either. I am a bit of a packrat, and it seems sure as I get rid of something, no matter how long that something has been sitting around, two days later I will need it for something and will be pissed that I got rid of it.
I could work on my clothes closet. There are partially assembled enamel earrings in there, waiting for me to finish putting them together so I can sell them. They are occupying all of the floor in the back. I could work on reconstructing my friend’s jewelry set, that I made for her, because she has lost an earring and needs another one so she can wear it all together again. I could work on my workshop, up in the attic, with all the copper debris, and the blowtorches, and the bits of wire where I make some of my jewelry. Or I could make some jewelry. God knows, it’s been long enough since I’ve done that.
I just have no motivation. All I know is, I have to go back to work tomorrow, in that hateful clinic, and muster up the energy day in and day out to be enthused about patients who, well, sometimes don’t enthuse me. In fact, a lot of them astonish me with their hatefulness and their demanding attitudes. What happened to all the nice people? So here I am, holed up in the attic and doing the one thing that I do make myself do: a daily blog post. I have only missed one since about July. I am not sure this will be much to read, but at least I will have done it, and if I am captured downstairs and set on a task, I will have already gotten it done and can slink off and do an unenthusiastic job on whatever it is that I have been given.
I don’t want to leave the attic, but I’m getting hungry. Of course I’m on a diet, so my husband won’t like seeing me eating either. And I am thirsty. I need something to drink. This will eventually smoke me out of the attic. Or my husband will come looking for me, realizing that I must be up from my nap and I still haven’t done anything all day. I should probably go show myself before I get nabbed. I will make a show of busying myself with something, so I can claim I did something today. Oh, the guilt. It just really gets to me. I just want to hide out and do nothing, but I know I should really be doing something. But what? Zero motivation.
OK. Deep breath. Hit publish. And hit the stairs. Go and find something to do, before something worse is given you. Bridge the time between now and when the alarm goes off in the morning, still in the dark, to force me out of bed, into the shower, into some scrubs and out the door. I need help. But if I get put on any more meds, I will be gulping handsfull at a time. I already am. The list keeps changing, but it never gets any shorter. Looking for that perfect cocktail that will make me more than a hollow person when faced with down time. Help me.