I broke my watch yesterday and since I’ve been unable to attach myself to a single idea.  It’s unimaginably weird to find yourself toppling into a depressive hole over the slightest physical change, but I’ve come to realize (although particularly slowly) that this is my life.

Barely able to focus on the written words, never mind the narrative story, I trudged through an article earlier about the American way in moving.  This peaks content on my list of interests, and yet, I could barely make it through a paragraph without my mind wandering to one of my current anxieties.  I also read earlier that one of the main psychological therapeutic issues my generation (read: millennials) is facing today is the overwhelming anxieties of life.  

In one of my three (read: too little) therapy sessions of the recent past, my brilliant therapist questioned me as to whether my dedication to work, amongst other things, is merely a conditioned action, that is, am I only succeeding out of desire to please those around me?  

This, naturally, I denied strongly at first, defending myself with predictable reactions (well I just care a lot, I really invest myself in things, etc) and from there denying her suggestion arguing that for me they intrinsic motivations.  The second reaction only came after hearing myself babble such cliche reasonings aloud.  In the midst of the words, I felt embarrassed, mislead, and generally confused about how and why I’d been living this kind of professional, adult life for the last six years.  Finally, I shut down my mouth, realizing her question was not only valid, but certain held some truth.  I’m still not sure how much of it I’ve fully digested.

Here I am, six months later, practically jobless and poor as dirt, but with all the time in the world to do whatever I want with my life, but instead of writing narrative or playing my guitar (which I haven’t this week), all I could manage to do was sleep.  I joked earlier ago that I was challenging the cat to a sleeping match.  Until about an hour ago, I had him beat, spending just less than 5 hours out of bed today, but he retired again, curled up like a tabby baked potato on the couch, and here I am realizing (read: for the first time today) that I’m in a hole and that yesterday I was on a cloud.  Mania seems to come in mild forms for me these days, but I couldn’t tell you why.  I’m guessing it’s just because I have less to do, so it stretches its legs throughout a variety of stresslessness, but I still crash.

Yesterday, I was so productive.  A weightlifting session, six hours of driving people around, a few hours working on the pickup, an attempt at touch rugby, a load of laundry and a shower.  It took seventeen straight waking hours to get all that done, but I felt good about doing it all until the end of the night.  The tired crept on me slowly.  By ten pm, Rach found me sitting on the floor next to the dryer folding clothes, because I didn’t have it in me to stand anymore.  By the I was done weight lifting this morning, I had started the mental battle of ‘to be or not to be’.  I eventually decided the only reasonable action was to come home and ‘not be’ in the sense that I’d lose myself in sleep.

Now, it’s nearly eleven, and all I can do is relive the contrasts of the last two days.  My mind wanders some more, mostly back and forth about what to do with my life, but it still doesn’t settle on any idea.  It seems the entirety of my twenties has been spent not settled on any idea and that these swings between highly productive and beyond reasonably tired have always been apart of my life.  Since I was a kid, I remember having swings like this, and for the fifth or sixth time this year, I just said aloud to myself, “Maybe I do need some kind of medication.”

I have an interview for a full time, benefited, PTO, sick days, sign-on bonus, trucker job the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, and although I’m sure they’ll want to hire me before I leave, I’m not sure that I want it.  To be completely honest, I’m not sure that I want anything at all, ever.