every day

 every (damn) day 

Dear Diary,

You asked about my mental health.

Every day since I’ve returned to Roz’s bed: the radio wakes us, NPR whinging about this and that, especially about how unfair life is and what we should be doing about it. We should be joining these brave people, who are already making things better even if, well, clearly, they’re getting worse. It’s like listening to fingernails on a blackboard. It’s like being in a fifth-grade classroom - Mrs. Brown is going on and on about our sins in greater and greater despair about what little shits we are. My brain knocks its head against the wall of my skull hard enough it hurts; it brings tears to its - and to my - eyes. I pull the covers closer, I put Roz’s pillow over my head.

Only after she’s gotten up, showered, brought up breakfast - that she’ll eat at her dressing table, I’ll eat in bed (a cup of coffee, a slice of toast with butter and jam) - only after she’s dressed and announced that she’s off; only then do I try to get out from under, try to get up, get stuck halfway, try again, and finally stumble into the bathroom with my cold coffee, try to take a shit, begin thinking about taking a shower.

     If the morning extends from six until noon, it is almost half gone. Half of it has wasted away. It hangs empty like yesterday’s clothes on the hook in my closet, yesterday’s clothes that - to hell with a shower - I’m going to put on again today.

     Eventually.

                                  Your friend,

                                   Ted

 11.23.18