The kitchen is a complete mess and, weirdly, I don’t care today. Maybe it’s because its state seems such an accurate representation of how I feel inside. The dishwasher is gaping open, broken and useless, with still the top loaded with only half cleaned stuff, the bottom drawer taken out to serve as an extra dishes dryer on the side. The sides are cluttered with both clean and dirty dishes, pans, and plates, some piled, some strewn about as I lacked the desire to stack them earlier. In the midst of it all, are two prepared bento boxes full of good intentions that will not taste of unfulfilled hopes and bitter disappointment. The bin is full of rubbish and the hobs and fridge both need a clean.
So yeah, the kitchen feels a bit like the inside of my head, a mix of all the good and all the bad, of the mess that one dysfunctional thing creates. In itself, it’s not the end of the world that the dishwasher is broken or that I couldn’t get up this morning. But so much mess gets created around that one thing that it might as well be. And I just don’t have the energy required to win the battle against the ever piling dirty dishes. No matter what I do, there is always more of the fuckers and sometimes, I just get too tired to stand at the sink and scrub.
Today is one of those days.
Last week I would have told you I was getting better. I had a streak of highs during which I managed the most productivity I ever seem to manage in one burst: I cooked, I blogged (only one post mind), I had ideas for a couple of short stories, and I even tried to write (although given that I think I only got 100 words out, I’m not sure that counts). Hell, I even started reading a book myself, not having it read to me through an audiobook. It was progress, it felt good, I laughed and meant it all the way down to my core.
Then, like a gauge that suddenly gets to the bottom all the happiness, the drive, the desires and motivations to do anything just went. I woke up, and I felt like nothing more than an empty shell. At least I was an empty shell who had managed to get up. And even though I was wondering around the house like a ghost, I could at least cling to the achievement that I had managed to get up at the allocated time.
That didn’t last. A day of being a ghost and I didn’t want to get up anymore. So now, every morning feels like a renewed failure, an exercise in the pointless because I just know that I’m going to start my morning on a negative if I don’t get up when I meant to. So I get told I should just stop focussing on the time. But I can’t. That one, seemingly tiny achievement of being able to get up for those few days is not something I can, or want to give away. If I do then, what is the point in even trying? Yes, failing to get up might make me feel a gazillion times worse, but if I do manage it, it will be like this little ray of sunshine there to remind me that maybe there are a lot of ‘can’ts’ today, but there has been at least one ‘can’.
But in the meantime, I failed this morning. It’s gone two and I’m not even dressed. I won’t get dressed. What’s the point of getting dressed when the day is already so well underway you just know you’ve missed your train? All I get do is sit on the edge of the tracks, watching the back of the train in the distance, knowing that today I missed it and that there is nothing that can be done about it. It’s the kind of lonely nobody can help you out of. Because no matter what, on that platform you’re sitting on, there is no one else. Because you only end up on specific platforms due to specific circumstances and no two people are the same. Sometimes being aware that there are other platforms with other people stranded on them helps, sometimes it just seems to add to the aura of quiet loneliness.
So on days like today, all it feels I can do is sit there on the platform, wait for the train with everybody on it to come back so the gates of the station will open again and I can leave, only to come back tomorrow and hope that I’m on time.