My Antidepressant Life

Have a good life.

Next year becomes never.

This week’s FMF writing prompt is: RUSH

I hear it all the time, about how we all need to slow down, stop rushing, stop hurrying, take a break. Sometimes, though, the day needs to be seized. Hard. Carpe testiculum.

A week ago, I found out someone special to me was in hospice, and, dear reader, I lost my damn mind. I doubly lost it when I ran my budget over and over, and just can’t make a visit happen. I have nothing left to sell that I don’t use for work. My budget is so tight that there is no furniture in my living room. No internet in my home. I keep the heat around 60*, and can just, just pay my electric bill.

I am deeply ashamed of my financial situation. I should have rushed that divorce, instead of sticking around for two more years while my ex continued to run up debt on nonsense. I should have rushed out of the relationship the first time he cheated. Some things don’t take deep thought.

Sometimes, we do need to rush. Sometimes, we do need to hurry along leaving a bad relationship, or making an important decision, or taking a class, or visiting a friend. At some point “next year” becomes “never,” because we run out of next years.

I should have rushed into every opportunity to visit friends and family, over the years.

I haven’t given up. I’m putting in for all the side work I can find, and have made sure my boss knows overtime is my friend. Run, don’t walk. Make sure the people special to you know how loved they are.

Image of a four way freeway at night.

5 thoughts on “Next year becomes never.

  1. You bloody well hang in there. If you will, so will I.

    A sonnet on the subject, written just for this comment –

    Cancer’s come to kill me,
    and I hear the distant drums
    that sound a fell eternity
    and tomorrow never comes.
    I live the pain from day to day,
    and the next day will be worse
    without a path to find a way
    to ameliorate this curse.
    But you’ve got to stand for something,
    in the midst of all the slaughter,
    so I will make my hope take wing;
    it’s all I have to offer.
    Not a hope for healing graces,
    but that I’ll smile at eights and aces.

    #4 at FMF this week.

    1. Thank you, Andrew. This means the world, especially coming from your situation and experiences. We’ll have a pact to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Deal.

  2. You know, I really don’t know what I could say in a Comment that doesn’t sound crass or trite. Life sucks sometimes, sometimes long time, and I wonder what God is playing at. Sounds like you are really going through it.
    But you also sound incredibly tenacious and determined – or just bloody-minded as my dad used to say! So I’m with Andrew – hang in there.
    Just a thought about your friend in the hospice – could you write to them instead? I know it’s not the same as seeing them. But their energy levels may be very low so a letter might be a very manageable way for them to hear how much you love them. Just a thought.
    Your FMF Friend #25

    1. Thank you for your encouragement, and practical words. A letter is an excellent idea. I’m so close to this, I can hardly see straight, so I really appreciate the advice.

      As for “bloody minded,” this is something my little sister and I joke about. My siblings and I weren’t all raised together, and sometimes turns of phrase catch us off guard when we contact each other. She goes with “bull headed” and I go with “bloody minded,” and it’s led to a lot of good-natured teasing. She and I have really connected this year, thanks to texting. It’s a good thing to remember that sometimes next year becomes today. Thank you for that.

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