I keep coming to Skwerl to see if Phil has written today. Not to judge him. I just like to see when he does. I know he’s got sort of a split creativity pallet so he could be drawing, could be playing music, could be taking a well-deserved night off too.
I’m not going to lie, I’m very close to just closing up and going downstairs myself. Erin’s had a pretty rough day. She started a new medication, she’s gone some concerning diagnosis, and then she felt sick most of today (after several days of fatigue, the reason she made her doctor’s appointment today to begin with). I’m my usual super-upbeat self (if this were scratch and sniff you’d be overwhelmed with the scent of my sarcasm), but I managed to get the dishes going after making myself a nice salad for dinner (the plan was tacos, but neither of us felt stomach-strong enough for them), and now I’d rather be cuddled up next to my wife and at least one of the three cats as the weather has shifted to cooler temps finally.
But I’m here. For the moment. What I may do to excuse myself is try to read the story I’m hoping to rewrite. I haven’t looked at it in at least a year, probably more. And it would be good to have it in my head in a less blurry manner than it is if I’m going to try to spend any time with it this weekend.
I’m also having a terrible week with my job. Nothing’s changed so much as it won’t ever change because it is what it is (hate that phrase), but we’re still in the last month of our pay cut that they put on us at the beginning of the pandemic, and the workload feels more than it did before with less chances of things improving any time soon. With Erin’s health, and my health, let’s be honest… even the cats and the need for them to get check-ups and such, it would be really nice to have something that felt a little more stable. And, frankly, a little more personally rewarding.
But this is the time last year that I was told by both a co-worker and my manager (who was probably told to say it by my co-worker) that I needed to use some vacation time because my mental stability was slipping. Only this year I’ve had more sick days than I feel normal about, as well as taking time off for vet appointments for Gaiman, so I don’t know if there’s really a vacation for me (which would consist of me sitting at home anyways). My prospects are low. I mostly just want to sleep in for a week or five.
Work being work, I handle it the way that I always have. Some jobs are most certainly better than others, but not having to work has always had a really nice ring to it. I’m not against having something to do, or putting time and effort into making something or, specifically for me, trying to improve things for others. But it would be excellent to have a choice as to how to expend that energy. As I find myself more and more struggling to drag my ass out of bed, and then now it’s just up my own stairs to my office in my own house, I know very well that I can’t do this forever. But I don’t see an option other than doing it forever. We don’t have a savings, I don’t know what’s happened to our 401ks from our last jobs (should really get on that), we have to pay for this house, not to mention the things that it needs as far as repairs. Bills always go up, incomes don’t seem to. So the most I can hope to do is work until full retirement age and pray there’s still social security to collect.
Which is one more reason my bed is calling to me. Even with the kitten sleeping on my mouse pad. I just want to lay down and not think too much more today.
But if it’s nothing else, I guess it’s a sign of hope or sheer fucking willpower that I am, in fact, sitting here at my desk and typing my morbid thoughts into my PC. As much as I look forward to the eventuality of giving up as a possibility, me sitting my ass in this chair after being in it for nine hours for work means that I see some value in what I’m doing with this. Not sure what yet. It’s not a lot of promise, very little progress. But It’s Thursday and I’m now enough weeks in that I can’t instantly think of the number of days I’ve been doing this straight any more. I won’t say that any writing is important writing, not by any means. But the action still feels important. It’s just going to feel so much better when I can stop writing about wanting or needing or struggling to write. When I have something else to talk about or think about. I am unnecessarily repetitive in my own head. It’s all Friends reruns up there. I’m hoping to channel hop soon.
