I'm just barely meeting my obligations. I respond to new year greetings belatedly, with a pessimism I don't disclose. Planning a weekend trip to an Irish seaside village with friends, I write a lie: Looking forward to seeing you! I uphold a bare-bones effort to appear normal, which means keeping up appearances, staying tidy and clean, writing emails full of lies, and making to-do lists of tasks which are supposed to, in their devising, add up to a happier future me, tasks that I may never accomplish.
How to feel normal, when you don't even know what it looks like, when the parameters of normality are always shifting, an alien guise that I can never assume because who I am is a deeply hurt, incorrigibly scarred creature bent on quiet self-destruction? Really, I just want to run away, from the violence of this world; become a lone mariner, or a mountain hermit, never interacting with people, part of the sea or wind, which has never hurt me, even though it might kill me.
Anyways, I got a worming pill for Sam this morning. The butcher, a hobby breeder of bichon frises, had said he was looking skinny, even malnourished. I felt ashamed, as if I was failing in my duty of care, for the luxury of self-absorbed feelings. It might be, though, that Sam has only lost a lot of muscle mass since his injury, and that I only need to readjust his diet. Perhaps all I need, in dealing with what is now apparently a low-grade depression, is to adjust my expectations, as well as my interpretation of situations and events.