Day 11 - controlled melancholia

Sigh. Ok well, despite my best laid plans, I find that after working a 10 hour day in a job that is boring but busy and coming home at lunch and after work to feed, de-shit and pay attention to 4 animals, I've been fairly depressed. I've thought quite a number of times about writing myself out of it but instead I use the luxury of having to do nothing as a salve.

In the late evening, I finally have the sheer deliciousness of having some time without obligation stretch before me. In the hours roughly between 7 pm and 5:30am, save a couple of pee breaks for the dog, pretty much my only mandate is to lay slothlike on the floor watching the idiot box, surfing the net, reading or sleeping.

So that's what I do...I spend focused time indulging my need for a complete release from responsibility and unfortunately, that seems to be mutually exclusive of the act of writing.

As an aside...when she's home, I feel guilty with that bit of freedom. The house is spotless and often she'll make dinner and handle all the care for the animals...all that is wonderful but highlights what a shlub I am. The companionship is uniquely satisfying enough that it lifts me above the dull ache of monotony but then there are the responsibilities of companionship like doing things with friends, taking pains to tamp down my more slovenly behaviors, etc. With all this, I don't make a lot of time to do nothing and that generally leads me to glassy-eyed resignation.

This is difficult to explain to a Type 'A' personality. She doesn't understand this overarching compulsion to do nothing, mostly because she doesn't understand that it is my coping mechanism for a life I really can't stand.

Once, when I had a small, discrete, emotional breakdown in my 30's, I took six weeks off from work and it turned out to be the most productive happy time in my life. The first two weeks, I mostly cried all the time consumed with a cramping existential agony. But by the third week, the crushing depression cleared and I surprised myself by becoming willingly productive. I started cooking and experimenting with recipes. I cleaned. I exercised. I wrote. I started volunteering with a non-profit. I had a regular sleeping schedule and my insomnia dissipated. I finally felt on the road to something better, albeit poorer, but more me.

I've always attributed this period of personal renaissance to a freedom from obligation -- the latitude to pursue my own agenda, my own passions, a truer path.

I can't begin to say how very much I need this now...but 4 years away from my pension, that dream may need to be delayed once again. But I'm not sure how much more melancholy I can stomach.