On Paper.

As much as I hate to admit it, I am officially in the throes of depression. Not suicidal depression, not self-harm levels or anything dangerous like that, but depression nonetheless. My therapist says it's perfectly "normal" for me to feel this way, that he'd be surprised if I wasn't depressed considering my mobility status of late, so...so I'm validated in feeling like shit. Hooray for me, I'm supposed to have no interest in a goddamn thing!

Wait. That's not very comforting. The idea that my "normal" state of mind is a sad and lonely place doesn't make me feel any better, not really. It does make my daily routine slightly less pathetic, at least to me, but it's not a reassurance the likes of which I need. My husband has been working nonstop for weeks, leaving us approximately one hour each night to see one another and that time is generally spent in front of the teevee, his meaty dinner on his lap and my brain fuzzified by painkillers. Not the most quality time imaginable by far, but at least we've got that time. The one person who offered to come and spend time with me was unfortunately denied by my honest realization that I am a shitty companion when I'm on the painkillers. No, really, I am. It's bad enough that I chain smoke when I'm on 'em (as I believe she is not a smoker), but add to that the fact that I struggle to form a coherent sentence, fall over whenever I move and can - and do - fall asleep with no notice... I'm obviously not fit for social interaction. Until the doctors figure out what's going on with me, this is my life.

This. THIS. This is not what I wanted, but it is what I've got, so I still try to make the best of it. My brother came over twice this week and oh, honeybutts! It was so good to spend time with him! He's always been there for me, ever since we grew from fighting children to commiserating teens. There was a moment when he was here last week when he made a seemingly innocuous comment and I'd like to share it with you, paraphrased of course since hey! I was on painkillers. He said that, on paper, I have the life everyone wishes they had. I don't have to work, I don't have to deal with people all day long, I can paint or read or watch movies to my heart's content. But the reality is different, and those envious people don't realise that it's not that I don't want to work, it's that I can no longer work. That painting only happens when I'm having a "good day", and those are very rare of late. That reading in daylight gives me headaches, and movies get really fucking boring when that is the only entertainment available (yeah, yeah; first world problem. I know). That I generally cannot make my own meals, that I absolutely am unable to go anywhere alone, even to take a wee bag of trash to the bins out back of our apartment building. That my every movement is stricken with pain in places I didn't know could feel pain. That I am, effectively trapped.

In a perfect world, I'd be living the perfect life; in this world, I am merely perfect on paper. They say paper is more patient than man, though, so it would behoove me to practice being more patient. More like paper.