The Adversary Upstairs

It wasn't quite boredom. 

I was stood in the middle of my living room, absentmindedly gazing toward a small folding table covered in guitar pedals. I had been there for a moment or two. Or, not been there. 

No, it wasn't quite boredom. There was plenty that I could do. Take a walk. Play piano. Paint, and listen to a record. Watch a film, read a book, on and on. It was as if a part of me actively wanted to not do anything. It wasn't concious. It wasn't a decision I had made. It was as if I was pleading to something above me to let me do something, and that something was saying "No. You must do nothing. You must be nothing." 

So I paced.

I paced and wished I felt stronger. Wished I felt passionate. Adventurous. Anything. But nothing came.

These phases happen and I had been in a particularly difficult phase for a little while. Another panic attack at another grocery store. A dangerous wave a week or so ago (all the context you will get). A constant and incessant inner monologue detailing all of the things I've done wrong, I'm doing wrong. Displaying all of the ways I could solve it. In great and graphic detail. 

Pretend I don't hear it, and when it is too loud I walk around my house mumbling "shut the fuck up"and I wonder what my neighbors hear.

I don't remember a period like this ever lining up with unemployment before. Usually I take great joy in these breaks. I spend it creating, wandering, living. But I've shut myself in the apartment this time around, rarely leaving for anything other than groceries and a job interview a few days ago. Otherwise, I sat. Paced. Wasted. 

I can't help but notice the timing of everything lining up with running out of meds. The social withdrawal. Leaving the job. The dangerous wave and the Adversary upstairs. I had posted a message asking friends if they had any Wellbutrin they'd be willing to get rid of. One of them did. I'm on day two and it should be another week or so before I get back to normal. Until then, the fight.

The pacing. The indecision. The Adversary.

I layed on the floral couch I had inherited from my grandfather. The windows were open and the smell of someone's garbage was lacing the breeze. No true moments of peace.

Another week or so.