My bedroom is a pretty small room. And there’s a lot of stuff in it. And a fair amount of mess. But it’s my room and I kinda like it, which is just as well, because it’s where I live. I sleep here. I wake up and work here. I venture downstairs occasionally to check the post, get food or drink, but mostly to feed the menagerie, before retreating back to my nest. On a good day I may end up downstairs at the end of the day to binge watch TV for a bit before bed. On a bad day I don’t. I just stay here, and read, and work, and sleep some more, and play iPad games, and kill time, before bed. Weekends I barely make it out of bed at all. Why would I? Have you seen the weather out there? The daily encroaching darkness?
My ability to sleep is prodigious. I am just so tired, all the time. The only thing I’ve achieved out of this ‘norm’ this week is to re-dye my hair again, and I’d been meaning to do that for like three weeks. Woohoo, go me, right?
Since lockdown started, I’ve seen 4 people. And I don’t count the people I saw at the shop yesterday, the first time I’d been out of the house in god knows how many days. All I’ve done is sleep, work, pass time, and repeat. I saw my folks a couple of weekends back and I’ve been for two walks – hence the four people I have seen – and I have two more walks planned. Which is good, I guess. But I still have to come home afterwards. And why would I want to do that? What is there to come home to?
It’s all just horrible. I am permanently sad and miserable. I feel locked down, and locked in inside my head.
Anywhere else I am in the house there is too much space. I am faced with the paperwork I should be doing. The tidying that should be being done. The washing, the chores, whatever. The cat crap on the floor again. Stuff I can’t face. And then there’s the space. The emptiness. The quiet. The void. Whichever room I’m in, I’m in on my own, where other people used to be. It all hurts. And a lot of the time I just can’t do it.
Back in my nest is just about ok. All the photos of Matt are back to facing the wall. As a space, it’s physically comfortable. There’s room for all three of the cats to be here, in whichever negotiated truce arrangement they’ve agreed upon. So here I am. The loneliness is overwhelming, and my brain just seems to be going “there’s no Matt, there’s no Matt” over and over and over again at the moment. I cry, a lot, all the time, at the drop of the hat. There is nothing, and nobody, to hold it together for.
I don’t write. I don’t post. It’s lovely when, rarely, someone pings me to ask if I’m ok, but how the hell am I supposed to answer that? You can’t handle the truth, and I’m just going to make you feel sorry for me, and bad because you can’t help me. So I don’t answer. I don’t reach out to people because, again, how the hell are they going to make me feel better? How are they going to fix things for me? And if you’re nice to me at pretty much anytime, by whatever media, or even in person, I’ll probably burst into tears anyway.
There is nothing I do that makes me happy. Sure, I can pass time, I can get distracted, I work. But no, nothing makes me happy. I’ve forgotten what happy feels like, it’s been so long. There just doesn’t seem any point to doing anything. Again, who cares what I do or don’t do? I certainly don’t.
I just don’t see anything changing. The only light is that Tash will be home for the Christmas holidays, at some point, for some time. And then she’ll be gone again, and I bet we get locked down again, and here I’ll be here again, just like this. So why the f*ck am I doing this? I know I’ll keep on doing this, one day at a time, because I have to. But having this be my life isn’t exactly a great thing to have to face up to and cope up with. It sucks. And that’s an understatement.