Twenty-Six

Today the unhappiness still prevails, and I can't put my finger on it. It is as elusive as ever. I am supposed to be leaving for yoga class right now, but I don't want to go today, even though my therapist told me it will help with the pain, even though A says it will help get me out of the house. I pay $25 a month for a studio, and I can go take yoga as often as I want, they have two classes a day, but I've only been once so far. I tell myself, if I skip this morning, maybe I will go this afternoon but that is doubtful. Maybe I will go tomorrow instead, that is doubtful as well. I have so many things to do with my time, and I don't do any of it. I have a painting project I started over the weekend, that I should be finished with already, but I can't make myself get up and go work on it. I have boxes down in the basement that I still haven't unpacked since we moved here in December. I have a ton of shit I should be listing on eBay and selling, but I stare at those things and instead feel numb and lethargic with the idea. The novel I started a few months ago, which I quickly cranked out 30,000 words on, just sits by idly as an icon on my desktop. All of my life, I've been so good about starting things, but never finishing them, and I don't know why. I was never like that at work, just at home. At work I was the most dependable employee there, and worked the hardest and the fastest. I used to think I "burned up" all my energy at work, so I never had anything left once I got home, my body was tired, my brain was frazzled, and I didn't feel guilty about coming home and relaxing. But now I'm not working, so what is the excuse? Why can't I find the energy or desire to do even the simple things in life? I am not talking about getting on my hands and knees and scrubbing the kitchen floor. I'm talking about fun projects like putting photos away in an album, or going through my books to sell on eBay, or even something so mindless as cross-stitching. It takes little to no effort to sit and sew, but I don't do it. I have so many sewing projects that I started, and very rare is it that I finish any of them. I lose interest, and move on to the next greatest thing, but that interest doesn't last long either. I have a garden out back, everything I planted in the spring, and my plants are loaded with vegetables and yet I can't muster the energy or even desire to go out my back door and pick the fresh tomatoes and peppers that A loves so much. Last night I served some of our homegrown tomatoes at dinner, just sliced with salt, and A acted like it was the finest caviar, he devoured them and praised them. Such a simple little thing, like picking a tomato for the man I love, and I can't even get slightly inspired to do it. We have two acres of land surrounded by woods, it's not like I want to avoid going outside because of the neighbors or anything. I have my privacy back there. Our house is three stories, the plants are on the patio on the ground level, and there is a deck above it. A worked very hard to create the patio for me, he cleaned up the land and put down rock and stepping stones, hung windchimes for me, put two chairs and a table and candles and plants out there. All for me to enjoy the outdoors in the shade. Do you think I ever go out there? Very very rarely, and I feel shame for that, for not wanting to even spend a lazy afternoon out on my own patio. I can't seem to extricate myself out of the living room long enough. There are so many things around the house that I just must attend to, like the dry cleaning mounded up in the closet- A's very expensive work clothes that I am too lazy to iron so I take out to someone else instead. The recycling is piling up in the garage, and we make every effort to separate and recycle everything, but I can't seem to make myself drive over to the recycling center to drop it all off- it's less than five miles up the road, but my mind shuts down suddenly when I look at the plastic and newspaper pouring out of their containers. What is wrong with me? Now that my pain is lessening day by day, I have made myself do more housework, but mentally I am completely checked out while I do it, I don't see anything or hear anything around me, I just go through the motions, empty inside. Why can't I find any joy or satisfaction with keeping the house clean? Why don't I do anything all day long? I watch the hours alone tick by, 12, 13, 14 hours or more on some days before A gets home. What did I do all day long? What did I accomplish? Where did that time go? I don't know, I can't answer it, the minutes just seem to slip away from me every day. I've been out of work for over seven months now, and it has flown by, and in that time I have accomplished nothing. Nothing at home, nothing outside the house. I don't know where my life is going, and I can't believe that I was meant to stay at home all day all alone. I have no purpose in life, no reason to even get out of bed in the mornings, but I do because I can't let A know that's how I feel. Some days, after he goes back to work, I go back to bed and will sleep until lunch. Those are rare days, because usually I am not sleepy and staying in bed is pointless. It only feeds my worthless feelings about myself. I make to-do lists almost every day, and I never finish them. But I have no excuses, I've got all day to myself with no distractions to keep me from finishing the laundry, or a painting, or writing my book, or harvesting veggies. I feel like a disaster, a train wreck in the purest sense, even though the physical pain is getting better I still feel like I am spiraling out of control mentally. I was not made to be a simple housewife, I hate this life, I don't know what to do with myself. I need help, I need direction. I need a new life.