Hi, It's Me

I have a confession: I have absolutely nothing for you this week.

Bupkiss. Nada. Not even the glimmer of a snarky comment.

Not because there’s nothing on my editorial calendar (it clearly provides the intended “shell”). But more along the lines of my brain refusing to cooperate. When I sat down to write—complete with my suitably adorable graphic—I looked at the framework of my piece and realized it was complete garbage.

So I deleted it.

And then realized I had nothing else to replace it with.

(Not what you were anticipating after my happy little “Look, I made it to One Year” announcement, I know. But here we are)

The truth is, the past two months have been exceptionally difficult for me. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. But, as always, it’s easier to slip on my “Everything is going fine” mask and continue with my routine. That’s what’s expected. And it doesn’t make waves or cause anyone trouble. Least of all me.

But everything is not fine.

It’s—well, whatever the step up from a dumpster fire is. (The entire landfill on fire? I don’t know how the progression goes. I’ve never asked)

An aspect of my health is caught at a crossroad that will likely lead down the traditional path of “We’ll just watch things.” Which everyone knows translates to “Feel free to schedule a recheck we’ll eventually cancel because we have better things to do, patients who matter, and people we actually care about.” I should be used to the routine, but this knife cuts deeper than usual. Because it was an answer that solved so many questions.

And I’m so tired of not feeling like a human being.

One hour of therapy a week isn’t enough to dive into the tangled web of my brain. But that’s the only allotment that remains for the ordinary person these days. The oppressive weight that everyone’s feeling—and the insane breakdown GenZ has over the sunset changing colors—means there’s a shortage of talking time. So I have to jot down notes and save up my thoughts throughout the week and then attempt to distill them into a single sentence for dissection come Monday evenings.

It’s not working.

And I’m losing my grip on the barricaded door that prevents me from running outside and screaming at the top of my lungs. (Which may explain why our next-door neighbors are moving)

To top it off, my father was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s. A diagnosis that has been the bane of my existence since I watched it eat my great-grandmother. And I can’t process the reality because I am my father’s daughter. I’m so far up the river of Denial I’m excavating its source. The sudden loss of words or forgetting where I placed something has turned evil and sinister. I’ve become obsessed with memory video games, jabbing my finger at the screen as if the cartoon character is somehow responsible for preserving my brain cells.

As if my slowly creeping scores can somehow protect against an ambiguous shadow creeping up on the man who’s always stood up for me. (A losing battle when considering my dismal ability to wield the Nintendo Switch. And isn’t that a shitty metaphor?)

So I have nothing for you.

Because this week, my carefully constructed self, held together with chewing gum, tape, dental floss, and paper clips, fell apart. And the cats ran away with the paper clips, the gum ground into the carpet, and I couldn’t untangle the dental floss. I’m looking at a random assemblage of pieces, trying to figure out how to stick them back together and keep up appearances by writing how I always do.

And it isn’t working.

Which means admitting defeat this week.

I know most of the cats’ hiding places. At the very least, I’ll get the paper clips back.

And you will receive your promised snarky hermit crab next week.

I promise.