Nights always make things more desolate for me. I get home from work at an hour when most women my age are going out for the night.
Instead of enjoying my life I feel like I am being dragged through it. All for less than minimum wage.
I don’t know why I drag my feet to help myself. For a short period in my only-miserable-to-me existance, I was happy. Medication made me happy.
Sane people want to be happy, right? So why is it that I don’t seem to?
I offer up the fate blindly. If I don’t make the appointment then I’m not meant to make the appointment. Fate will work it out and when I’m meant to go, I’ll go.
The god I don’t believe in moves in mysterious ways. Give me a sign, o Lord.
Tarot, I Ching, yarrow sticks, stones, but I’m too blind, stupid or stubborn to follow their signs.
I tell myself, “It’s too bad. Make the appointment. To hell with what any of them (doctor-mother-father) thinks, you need it, so do it for you.”
But it’s too early to make an appointment and there’s no one there.
And then it’s 9:30 and I have a meeting
When I remember at noon, I’m too busy trying to finish a story
At four o’clock I’m scrambling to get those last few things done and then it’s five p.m. and too late to make the appointment.
And I get Scarlett syndrome.
Tomorrow is another day.
Maybe I’ll be happy then.
