I’m back at work.
Well, I’m back working. A few months. Blessed income, blessed progress, blessed not sitting at home bored or – worse – sinking into myself. And it’s a job I’ve done before, in a place I’ve worked before, and it’s a nice place and nice people and it’s no stress, no stress at all. Collect papers, sit. Punch numbers into database. File papers. Repeat.
I can walk to work – I can walk to work! – it’s just over half an hour, and right now the mornings are still bright but brisk. Soon they’ll thicken into honey and cool; soon the pavements will be piled with leaves. Soon then the mornings will fade to water weak blue, the sky all black lines and crows.
It’ll be nice to get out, to see people day to day. To have something to fill the day and a routine to hang my life on. It’ll be nice to have money land in my account every week, to not worry about bills and late payments and saying yes to visiting friends. It’ll be nice to hope that after this placement ends I’ll find another, and I’ll still have this blessed daily routine and the fortune of moaning about Mondays.
You play the cards you’re dealt.
There’s a balancing act to be performed, a tightrope walk between counting blessings and grieving loss. Get it wrong and I fall into bitter darkness. I’ve old course mates on research teams examining Alzheimer’s, addiction neurobiology. Molecular genetics of motor neurone disease. I’ve older uni mates just, y’know, doing well.
Denying the validity of my feelings about this, the sheer pissed-off-ness I have at how breakdown after misidentified breakdown has landed me several rungs down the ladder, is foolish. Yes the important things in life are family and friends and food and shelter, so count your blessings. But I tried, you know? I fucking tried and I was trying to grasp something I truly wanted and just turning around and shrugging my shoulders when all that trying fell to nothing and left me poor and alone in a city barely worthy of the title – it’s not a valid response. It’s a cruelty to myself.
But there’s a dragon down below and he’s quick to wake and slow to sleep. And angry, and strong, and he spits bitter poison and flames to burn me up. This dragon doesn’t care for blessings, only cares to curse. Beware waking the dragon.
So I’m back at work, or at least back working. Back to water cooler chats and bland questions about the weekend, money in the account and thank god it’s Friday. Back to punching numbers, again and again and again and, and again. ‘It’s better than nothing’, and it is better than nothing, and I’m looking forward to seeing people and having a routine to hang my life on, money in my account no mater how little. The good fortune to be complaining about Mondays
Looking forward to being able to tell myself I’m not, I’m not broken, I’m not completely fucking broken. Because it’s better than nothing and it could be worse, it could all be so much worse; I have friends and family and food and shelter and maybe I’ll carry on being not completely fucking broken, and that’s something to celebrate.
I’m back to counting blessings.