End of the Working Line

 I am going to retire. I can't do this daily grind anymore. I can't keep trying to get through any more days with growing anxiety and depression. I'm so fucking unhappy that I feel like I'm trying to suck joy from a bent straw.

I asked everyone. Family, friends, strangers. (Okay, maybe not the strangers). And only one person wanted me to stay working and that was my daughter. I think her desire had more to do with my paycheck and less to do with my happiness. 

But the decision actually came from the conversation I had with my therapist. We went through the pro's and con's. We looked at it all and the realization was simply that no answer was perfect but the least damaging one was retirement. 

And I finally admitted what I hated admitting: I am severely depressed. People who know me have probably figured that out. And I've known it but didn't want to admit to the severity of it. But the truth is that I'm one of those people who stops functioning well. I don't shower. Laundry grows, garbage bags gather and I sit on my bed doing anything to distract myself. 

Sometimes I have those wonderful sparks of joy or energy and things happen. Curtains are made and hung. A lasagna is cooked, the floors sparkle. But all too often I drag myself from bed to my computer, wearing the same clothes as yesterday and trying not to take all the slings and shots sent by email to heart.

I don't know what tomorrow is going to bring. But this is the only thing that feels hopeful to me right now.