Sanity

Sometimes, I worry about myself. I can be trucking along just fine. Then -- WHAM!!! Out of the clear blue, one innocent little comment is made or one little question is asked. Suddenly, my thoughts are spiraling out of control to the point of suicide. This cannot be sane. Ya think???

Tonight's question came from my "room mate". I use the term loosely because he is the guy I live with who is asking very little of me. His overflowing generosity is being used merely to keep my worthless, unemployed, pathetic ass off the street. I contribute a bit to the groceries and do some cooking and cleaning... and even those last two were because I insisted. Tonight, his simple question was, "Have you heard back from any of your jobs yet?"

I answered quickly and calmly. "No. I'd have told you if I did."

That was all it took. In a matter of about 10 minutes, my thoughts had gone something like this:

He must want me to leave. He's tired of me sitting around his house. (I should note that I apply for more than the requisite number of jobs per week as dictated by the Unemployment Security Commission... but still.)

I should put my stuff in the car and go. I should do it tomorrow morning. I'll go back to NC and see my family. Then, I'll pack as much of John's stuff in my car as I can and drive it to him in Florida. I'll leave the car with him and then just end it all. I could leave the car with Christi. She deserves something better. I'm going to miss meeting Olyvia. I wonder if they'll tell her nice things about me? I bet she'll be beautiful. My girls will be okay in the long run, though. I'm just another thing for them to worry about at this point. It's all pretty hopeless. I'm not contributing to society anymore. I'm a burden. I feel sad.

At this point, my depression is mounting like falling rock at the bottom of a ravine. I walk out of the house so my room mate will not have to be subject to this yet again. You see, I let myself be washed over by grief this past Sunday and had what I am quite certain would be classified as a bonafide breakdown. He was very supportive and comforting.

But one mustn't let those things happen too often or else people grow weary of them. They give up on you.

So I walked out of the house and rummaged around in my trunk for a moment. What I really wanted was a cigarette. I have a pack in my glove compartment and was truly tempted. The only thing that stopped me was the stench I'd have carried back into the house around my person. I don't know why I care about the stench. Some days I don't. Others, like today, when I feel like I am teetering between acceptance and rejection by someone I care about, I don't want to smell like a back alley. After all, if his earlier comment was indeed an indication that he was tired of me holding down his sofa on a daily basis, then I could hardly afford to make the situation worse by smelling like cigarettes.

Maybe I'll go have one anyway.

That's sane... isn't it?