I managed to work for 6 hours and I was completely fried and on the verge of tears by the end of the day. I started tearing up in the elevator, actually, and several times on the drive home. Over nothing, really. My coworker got a call from his wife just before he went home (what to have for supper, by the sounds of it) and so I teared up because how nice for him to have a family, and how nice for me to have no one. Then I cried because it’s only Thursday and my next doctor’s appointment is next Wednesday, and because I’m going home to an empty house, and because I had a Depeche Mode CD in the car (ya, I roll old-school. Or poor, depending on your perspective) and I don’t see myself being able to go to their next concert, and on and on.
The cat is supremely happy because I made a stop on the couch instead of heading directly to bed, like I usually do, but I’m going to head to bed now. My eyes feel all hot and swollen like they do after a cry and I don’t care enough about anything to try and do any chores or anything productive. Knowing that relief is so close, and trying not to do it, is like having a suitcase with a million dollars and trying not to open it.