--smoking (semi-successfully?)
--clown class, almost but i didnt (thank the gods)
--chewing my fingernails (complete failure)
--men (doing pretty good with that one these days)
--work (would love to NOT be selling my labor but have not managed that thus far)
“I’m at the hospital and I’m not sure how long I’m going to be here. I don’t think I’ll be coming back to work.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. But we can wait for you, you don’t have to quit. Do you have a rough estimate of when you’ll be getting out?”
“No I have no idea. I don’t know. I can’t come back.”
Two days after begrudgingly beginning a Wellbutrin prescription, I quit my job from inside the loony bin. The phone hung on the wall in the hallway between my room and the common area -- treacherous territory. At first I was self conscious about using this phone because what if anyone else heard me? Wellbutrin made me shameless. And it gave me a plan of action.
- Quit job.
- Move home.
- Make art with friends.
What a delight! I couldn’t sleep and I was barely eating, but now I had plans. I was beginning to feel human again, although the days vascilated wildly between “I live here now” and “worst.”
Humanity was short-lived. Once I was released, I was back on my damn phone, drinking, and yes even smoking again. Home had been a beautiful prospect in my mind, but it turned out all my friends were also suffering from mental health crises and no one wanted to make the same kind of art as me anyway. I tried to hold onto the fire I’d felt, the wellspring of ideas I had rediscovered, but I felt trapped by the constraints of the whole damn deal -- time, money, maintaining a corporeal form, the rigidness of the available paths. Look, if you squint, you can see your own death at the end there. Well then. Why not speed things along a bit? If I’m locked into this nonsense called “life” and can barely make any meaningful choices until I die, why not just become a ghost now? Ghosts can do anything.
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