Should I Stay or Should I Go?

Reasons I Probably Maybe Ought to Go to the Gym:

  1. Climbing three flights of stairs to get home
  2. Feeling tired–a lot
  3. Getting out of bed in the morning, which shouldn’t really be that hard
  4. Building strength, which I strongly suspect will help my ankle recover
  5. Skating with zero stamina
  6. Spending $20 a month for a gym membership that I don’t use
  7. Dancing
  8. Aching body parts, pretty much every day
  9. Sweating–enough said
  10. Jiggling my belly like a bowlful of jelly, which is only okay if I were Santa


Reasons I use to convince myself to skip the gym:

1.       You’re hungry; go home and eat dinner.
2.       You’ve had a hard day; go home and relax.
3.       You have too much to do at home.
4.       It’s Wednesday. Isn’t it better to make a fresh start on a Monday?
5.       What if your workout clothes don’t fit?
6.       It’s too cold outside.
7.       It’s too hot outside.
8.       It’s dark.
9.       Your ___ hurts too much.
10.   Maybe you’ll hurt your ___ again.
11.   You haven’t shaved.
12.   Your skin is dry. Maybe it’ll itch when you sweat.
13.   You don’t have music to listen to.
14.   You didn’t write a workout plan.
15.   You don’t have any snacks to eat afterward.

The Block

I promised myself I would write.
Now I’m doubting the words coming out on the page. Not just the words, I doubt my own thoughts. When you think about it, really I’m doubting myself. What if I’m not good enough, not special enough, not unique enough?
What is enough?
I always thought writer’s block happened to others, not me. I thought it was a lack of ideas, possibly indecisiveness. Maybe it’s really fear—fear that I’m not really good; not that smart, not that talented.
Everything I write falls flat in my head. All I hear is melodrama. My words are all trite drivel. I start anew. Look, a fresh page. Now I stare into the emptiness, wondering what to write. I chase the thoughts across the deserted playground in my brain, but they’re faster than me. Soon I grow tired. I stop, double over with a stitch in my side, breathing in and out, ignoring the faint wheeze in my chest.
Sheepishly, a few ideas crawl toward me. They’re too slow to run. These thoughts present themselves to me, feeble and obviously flawed. Nobody wants them on their team. I don’t want them. But they are all I have.

Impossible Client

I have written the name of your project on a slip of paper

and lit it on fire,
watched the flames as they caught hold,
seeking out, caressing
virgin white paper.
The flames left a trail in their wake;
transfixed, my eyes glued to its advance—
velvety grey shadows meeting
passionate red sparks and brilliant orange light.
All that remains, a pile of ashes in my hand.
I whisper your name and offer them up to the wind,
As sacrifice.
As tribute.
As plea.
The wind carries away your remnants,
scattering to all corners.
Nothing left now,

but smoke.

I didn’t know it was so bad…

Depression is some sneaky ass shit. It wears socks and walks on tip toes, creeping up from behind. The weight of it descends gradually, ounce by ounce, so I don’t notice it hitching a ride. I’m trudging along, slowed and stymied by it, but it all happens so gradually that I don’t notice the extra weight. One day to the next, it feels normal. I lose all perspective, lose track of the fact that all I feel like is shit and it never used to be this way.
It’s all in my head, anyway. Literally. All. In my head. It’s not like when you break your leg and have to walk on crutches. Then everyone can see your handicap, why it’s been several days since you showered, or why you haven’t left your house in over a week. But when that handicap is the fucked up chemicals in your brain, it doesn’t look or feel like anything should keep you from living your life.
Then there’s a day when I screw up every ounce of oomph and caring I have and pour it into the space inside my brain that controls things like hygiene and leaving the house. That’s the day you see me. It’s the best that things are going to get, the best that I am going to get. I wouldn’t make it out of the house if I didn’t find the part of me that cares about something—you. I’m surprised to find I care about much these days.
Yet, as you sit across from me and tell me about your life, I can’t care about it much at all. I’m running low to empty on cares, all used up in the getting here. I’m already looking forward to going home, to sinking into the sofa and not working so hard. When you tell me your tales, I work to put on the right faces, say the right things, sound the right way. I feel like an alien in my own skin, trying to approximate myself. This face means sad. This one, thoughtful. This one, happy.
You are my friend. I want to please you.
What’s new with me, you ask? That’s the thing. Nothing’s new. Nothing. I spent my week watching episode after episode of a stupid show on Netflix, caring but not caring. Numb to the world around me, to my own feelings threatening to overwhelm me.
Misdirection is the best tool of a magician. I’ll use it to distract, deflect attention from what’s really going on, a dark secret that I don’t really want to admit or address. If I don’t look at it, maybe it’ll go away, maybe it didn’t happen, maybe it’s not true. I’ll tell you that I feel numb and wonder what the point is in getting out of bed in the morning, but all in a perfunctory sort of way.
Quick! Look over here, where I’ve prepared a few anecdotes that the real Megan would have found funny. So I, Not-Megan, tell them to you, move the conversation forward and away.
Blink and you’ll miss it.

I feel like I’m faking it. I am fake. So I feel shitty. I am shitty. I judge myself. All of it makes me feel worse than I started out this morning. So exhausting.

I think I need some down time to recover. How many seasons are left in that stupid show?