These days are more of a waste than the panic ridden, knife laden days: days of nothing.
I have done nothing today besides drive ElsaDaughter to school.
I haven’t showered, eaten, drank, washed up, dressed, made my bed, fed or walked the dogs. I’ve spoken about five sentences.
I’ve slept and stared at nothing and hoped the world has forgotten me.
I can’t seem to stir up any emotion other than heavy dread at having to get up to pee. I’m thirsty. I guess I should get a glass of water too.
I have no idea if ElsaDaughter is still up or gone to bed, if she had dinner and did her homework. If she were younger she’d need to be given to a family member to be taken care of because I’d be an incapable mother. Husband once accused me of that. He wanted full custody. I think I’m he lesser of those two custodial evils at least.
I feel nothing today but a vague sense of doom like I know there’s an asteroid hurtling its way towards my pathetic little world which needs demolition anyway being a threat to its own safety so, yeah, not really bothered evacuating.
The dread is swirling in my pelvis, deeper than in my gut. It beats out through my body like a wifi signal: the sensation weakening out into my thighs and up in to my chest, deadening my arms and buckling my knees.
At least if the prickly burn returned I’d feel something tangible instead of this diffusion of accepting angst.
I know what I need to do to come back into the world but I’m barricaded out in the Unworthysphere gasping in nothing but the gaseous elements of self loathing and detachment.
I have nothing funny to write, no ironic comments on the world, no opinions on dating or health or politics, je ne suis pas Charlie parce que my opinion wouldn’t count for a god damn even if I had one.
Je suis invisible. Je suis déjà un peu morte. Je ne suis pas n’importe qui.