When I am old and wrinkly, I hope that the above phrase will be the phrase most associated with me–even though I say it mostly to myself. Today I stayed home from work and curled up in my reading place on the floor next to my bookcase and the heater. I listened for a time to my audiobook. Mostly I listened to the traffic outside. I turned off the lights and pulled my housecoat over me and dozed in and out of sleep.
Days to myself when I’m gloomy or unwell or both (like today) are necessary. Sometimes I like to stay home and be a sad, frumpy thing. A hiding day, I suppose. A day to stay close to painkillers and tea and other drugs. A day to make a million promises (and hope) to be better better, in mind and and body, tomorrow.
I also thought about whether or not I am lonely. I decided that, while I was homesick, I am not overly lonely. I miss my family and friends. I wish I had a cat sometimes. But I have T and my books and enjoy my solitude enough that loneliness has not become an issue. I do think that one of these days–after I’ve established more of a routine and am comfortable with my finances–I would like to go out and make new friends.
Antidepressant withdrawal is filling me with so much gloom. I am paranoid, irritable, and sad. Sometimes I think I am genuinely any of these emotions; other times, like now, I am suddenly very aware (aha!) that withdrawal is to blame for the dread and lethargy I feel. So, to all my friends and family: I am sorry.
Hello, everyone. Long time no blog. I moved in to my new garret apartment on November 12. The apartment building was apparently built in 1905. In fact, South End is the largest intact Victorian row house district in the United State (according to Wikipedia). Although my building is a few years later, it has similar charm—as well as annoyances. The stairs that wind up to the fourth floor and garret are slightly crooked. Walking up the stairs with groceries is akin to visiting a tilted floor exhibit at a science museum. The steam radiator heaters are cozy, but the one in the bedroom is broken. The walls are cracked like the building just survived a minor earthquake and there are a few holes in the walls and floor (which would explain the rodent poison and sticky traps left by the previous tenant). The crawl space off the bathroom is where mice could come in, I think. The holes and the gaps between slats remind me of scenes from Cinderella. So far, I have seen no rodents or bugs. Everything appears clean.
Except for the walls and carpets. I don’t think anyone ever cleaned the place since 1905. There was a film of dust on some sections of the carpet, and remnants of old Christmas trees and chipped paint in the corners. I filled the vacuum twice with dust and dirt and I have yet to finish vacuuming the apartment in its entirety. The light switches and doors show years and years of contact with grubby hands. My arms hurt from cleaning them.
But I like it. It isn’t a forever home and it isn’t the fanciest place, but it’s my first apartment. I’m short enough to avoid hitting my head on the slanted ceilings (most of the time). Bookcases line the walls and I feel at home—most of the time. I will know for sure once it’s clean.