New year. Same routine.
As I look at the months ahead of me, the long, flat, broad plain that my life appears to be, I want to curl up alone.
And, that’s what I did today. I put on sad music and dismantled my Christmas tree. Sorted and boxed ornaments. Carefully pulled colorful lights out from between dry branches, dead pine needles dropping to the floor. Folded stockings. Put everything into a green Rubbermaid bin. And, then, sat on the couch. The holidays, over. My program and impending employment search dangling in front of me.
I don’t want to see anyone or do anything. I’ve been reading and watching endless episodes of meaningless television shows on streaming Netflix. And, it feels kinda good. It’s wallowing. But, it’s not wallowing in self pity. I’m not sure what it is. An undefinable breed of emptiness. One that I know that booze, food, love, a job, or money can’t fill.
It’s funny how isolation creeps up on me. How comfortable it still is, even when I’m sober. A quiet place that isn’t happy or sad. And, maybe that’s a sign of progress. Comfortably numb. Present in a room that is unmoving and unchanging. All my little designs for myself seem to be waiting on the porch, or in my car. Not here with me. Not now.
Now, it’s just a cat on my legs. An afghan. Pillows from the the bed, today, lay stacked on the couch in front of the TV. All the clutter of the week strewn over the coffee and dining room tables. Mail, shoved into the little box beside my door, untouched. It’s like I’m in here, in this apartment, but, I’m not here. I’m somewhere else.
I’m just not sure where, exactly, I am.