I have a moment of respite. Mr. Fixit is not coming today. It is an agitated respite, however, as the house is a war zone. I am limited to a very few spaces in my home. I have been sleeping in the single guest bed for a couple weeks and my back aches. I will have to get a better mattress for it.
I should probably not write today as I haven't a positive thought in my head. I am going through several simultaneous "tragedies" alone. I place the word tragedy in quotes, for I know its proper usage. I am as tragic as Willy Loman. Sitting alone in the evenings with my several plights, however, is laying me low. This seems the culmination of a retirement year that hasn't had one good thing. Or so it seems. I know I overlook the obvious. There has been some mundane goodness. There is coffee in the morning and t.v. shows at night, etc. But my nerves have been shredded and frayed. I am prepared to submit myself to some doctor prescribed medication, though with my luck, I would be referred to counseling instead. Everyone else gets Xanax and anti-depressants by the yard. I have never had such luck.
I need consoling, not counseling. I need to narcotize away the fear. Ultimately, I think, that is what it is. Fear.
Maybe we (I) never realized the truth that Mr. Thompson spoke of. Perhaps it was a fear that drove his drug fueled madness. Perhaps he was not brave at all. Fear had made him insane.
Or that could be me simply projecting.
I will exercise today for the first time in a week. I look forward to a long walk. Nothing else. Just that.
I will order the Thanksgiving meal for my mother and myself today from Whole Foods. Dinner for two--well, I'll probably make it for four. You always want leftovers.
My hands shake. My body quivers. It seems nothing will ever be good again.
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