The Morning

I wake up today at seven, forty five minutes earlier than usual, to the sound of running water in the bathroom.  Reach for my wife in bed and grab nothing put blankets.  jennie’s up, a dim part of my mind reports.  why why why

My worry isn’t as strong as my fatigue and I fall back to sleep.

When my own alarm goes off there’s no noise.  I check my phone and there’s a text.

Mom trying to leave the house, agitated, she is having a bad day.  Need to check in before work.

I could go back to sleep, I think.  Then I remember it’s trash day.  And I have a meeting at 9:30 for work.  I have to start Doing the Things.  I lurch out of bed and feel sharp pain in my right knee, the bad one, and it buckles, I grab the side of the bed for balance and manage to stay upright.  careful joe I say aloud.  I remind myself to move slowly while I’m still half asleep.  I used to be able to jump out of bed and hit the day full speed, even after a night out, even with a hangover and my lungs feeling black and heavy from smoking.  Those days are behind me.  Care is needed.

Dressed, and downstairs, I continue doing the things. coffee, a piece of toast, Lexapro:  breakfast of middle-aged champions.  I do the few dishes left from the night before, feeling the warmth of the water on my hands, scrubbing bits of cheese off of plates with a blue textured sponge.  Then I put on my coat and hat because my office is cold — I turn the heat off in that area of the house at night and it takes at least half an hour to warm up.  I take eight bags of trash out — slow and steady, watch the knee, some of this shit is heavy — and get set up in my office so I can start the day.  I sit in this state at my computer, pale light coming in through the window to my left,  and think about writing but don’t write.

What I’m thinking about is depressive.  Yesterday I wanted Jennie to shut up in the morning so I could have my thoughts to myself.

Today she’s not here, and I feel empty and alone.  I have what I wanted the day before, but it doesn’t matter, my levels of happiness remain the same:  I am unhappy.

nothing makes you happy joe nothing will ever make you happy this is what you are

These are the bad thoughts, the ones I take drugs for.  What is the point of these drugs if these thoughts still invade?

I hear the black dog outside barking from across the street like it always does around this time.  If Jennie were here she would complain about it.

I realize that’s the problem — or at least one of them.  Maybe the most important one. I don’t know if Jennie’s ok.  I text her and wait but there’s no immediate response.  I put on the radio, NPR, in an attempt to pass time, but they’re talking about the earthquakes in Turkey and I can’t listen to this.  There’s nothing I can do about the situation there, the devastation, the death and pain and suffering.  I fire up youtube and videos pop up in my recommended list.  One is about new video games being released for the Nintendo Switch and I click on it unthinkingly.  I see the new games and realize that this used to make me happy sometimes — thinking about a new Zelda game.  Today it does nothing for me.  The thought of playing the new games feels like another obligation, just something I have to do because it’s a part of my routines and identity.

Five minutes into the video and Jennie texts back.

Mom ok, I gave benadryl, she is napping.  Going to work now.  Love you.

I immediately feel a little better, some kind of brightening inside.  Jennie is OK and her mom will hopefully be ok for another day and we are taking one day at a time because that’s as far ahead as we can look right now.

jennie makes you happy sometimes joe try to remember that jennie makes you happy 

I open the window, feel the cold from outside press in, and I write this entry.