Most days, I come home from work, walk the dogs, and fall onto the couch. Well, even that is an overstatement. Instead of falling on the couch, I often find myself crouched next to my bed or in the hallway or in some other unusual spot in my apartment simply because when I reached that transitory area of rug, I didn’t have the energy to keep walking. I just lowered myself and remained.
This isn’t what I wanted for myself, this part that I’m trying so clumsily to describe. I have a career; it’s not the one I imagined, but until I find the inspiration to change direction, I would say that I’m happy with my work considering that I haven’t recognized a better option. The part that I don’t want may or may not be directly related to my career; I don’t know. It’s the part that comes after all the meetings and effort and hours at my desk.
I think I may have failed at life so far. I earned my degree, found a good job, support myself, but I have a feeling that people do all of these things and still have life left in them to make dinner, watch a movie, Skype with a friend, do laundry, and relax with a glass of wine. I don’t, and that’s why I think I failed.
I mean, for god’s sake, look at me now. I’m at my dining room table in sweatpants, and my hair has already been assembled into the most unattractive pile on my head. My mascara is running a little, but I don’t give a fuck. I’m starving, but I really don’t feel like making a mess in my kitchen and only have enough energy to think about how miserable I am.
I have good friends and a good family. Even my co-workers think of me as a friend, I think. But I’m tired of being the downtrodden, woe-is-me person that everyone knows. I’m in a self-induced isolation. I don’t want to call a friend to vent or to show up at mom’s house because I’m too lazy to make dinner.
So here I am, alone, hungry, depressed, and tired. I know that the first step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem, right? Well, done. But how do I find step two?