Actually, there is a particular reason -- it's those darned chemicals in my body, or something about the way my body produces or disposes of them, or some damned thing to do with my body and chemicals and stuff. At least I think that's the reason. Everybody tells me so. I guess it makes a better reason that just figuring I was born under a bad sign or something, since usually the drugs the doctor-person tells the pharmacist-person to sell me help when I take them as directed; whereas if it were because I was born under a bad sign I'd have to try to find a magic monkey's foot or some damned thing to try to help and it probably wouldn't and then I'd just have to curl up and die or something. Not that curling up and dying sounds like a bad idea.
But lately it seems the drugs don't so much. I spend a lot of time sleeping. Or laying around thinking about maybe getting up until the thought passes and I fall back asleep.
Usually I figure it doesn't so much matter how crazy you are, as long as you can fake it well enough to get by on a day-to-day basis. And it's true that I'm sort of getting the things done that absolutely have to get done -- I have yet to forget or be unable to pick up Gavi from school in the afternoon, for example. I got the mailing labels done in time for the Minicon PR2 mailing. I did the laundry before we were totally out of clothes. I periodically fill, run, and empty the dishwasher. I can sit up and take food, and even manage to make something for Gavi to eat most evenings. So by all measures, I'm doin' fine and should be satisfied if not delighted. But it's all slap-dash. Half-assed. Just barely in time. I can't get up the steam to get stuff written on the calendar, so one of these days some obligation is going to pass by and bite me on the butt.
Where is my hole? Who took my hole? I want to crawl in it and pull it in after me. Not forever. Just for a while. Just let me sleep for a while. Maybe next year it'll all be better. Let me just sleep 'till then.