My Mom got chased out of the house by the old troll. She told me two weeks ago that she has surpassed her limit of what she’s willing to put up with from him. I know she wanted to ask if she could spend some time here, but we just spent three months with family and she knew we needed a long break. I got kicked out of the master bedroom this past week due to all of my late night ‘errands’ to bathroomtown. I’m in the guest room again, or my room, if you prefer. It’s a shame I spent so much effort trying to get that slab of a mattress comfy enough to sleep on when I should have been searching for queen-size fluffies. This side of the upstairs is much warmer and I generally like that sort of thing, but lately it’s all I can do to stay dry. The fevers come and go often enough that I’ve stopped paying attention. If I get chilled, I drink tea. If I get hot, I drink gatorade with ice. Either way, I sweat my tits off.
If Mom were to visit, poor MC would be stuck with me again. She has offered to sleep on the couch in the past, but we don’t allow our guests to be swallowed by the big green sofamonster. It’s perfect for me, as the crack between the cushions cradles my ass perfectly. Anyone who has any weight on them will sink into it and become a captive until someone else pulls them out of it. We had intended to trash the couch before we moved to Maryland but ran out of time to do another landfill run. This thing has a lot of history attached to it. It has a gritty feel from surviving a volcanic ash “storm” in Alaska (we were volcano noobs and didn’t enter through the garage instead of the front door because we didn’t know any better). It still faintly smells of Gidget and the back supports are broken and protruding from the toilet clogger plopping his giant, brutish body onto it one too many times.
In essence, he’s dead, Jim! The couch won’t make another move. It’s time for retirement.
At what point am I allowed to say enough is enough when it comes to my own cracks and broken supports? Yes, I’m depressed. Am I thinking clearly? I like to think so. When I’m adamantly against being systematically disassembled like John Wayne, it’s probably sending the wrong message. That I’ve given up or I’ve actively decided to allow my life to end by doing nothing. Maybe doing nothing is how I’ll live the life I want, no matter how short it might be. There’s a paradox to increasing one’s life expectancy by completely relying on others. It’s soul-crushing.
The three months of taking care of my husband were miserable in multiple ways, but I was allowed to be something other than a patient. I was allowed to live. I could go to sleep every night without nerves keeping me awake and wondering what the doctor would say to me at tomorrow’s appointment. I can’t say I was happy, but I also can’t say that I didn’t enjoy the break from my own personal hell.
I haven’t been sick that long when compared to some. I can pretend it snuck up on me and, bam, I wasn’t healthy anymore. Truthfully, there have been signs and symptoms since I was a kid that we all ignored and the blame was assigned to depression. I’m glad it went the way it did. I took advantage of opportunities that I would have otherwise excluded myself from.
Medical and surgical intervention can keep me alive as long as I’m willing to submit to it. But what about my mind? It’s trapped in a routine that brings me no pleasure. Is this the way I want to live? No. Is this a life worth living? I’m not sure I can answer that. Not now.