…and yet not a goddamn thing has changed much. Still bitter. Still old. Still trying to climb this town’s fucking social scene one event at a time. In the end that’s all that really matters; the number of event invitations on my foyer table will at least signal that I was not recluse when my sister is notified that I’ve jumped out the window because somebody traversed my last goddamn raw nerve. So there’s that.
I’ve lost 17lbs since January. Did I mention that before? Sorry. But I am not near my goal weight which is somewhere between ‘you look fabulous’ and ‘such a thin old man.’ I’d hoped that the fitness regimen would chase away the cobwebs of depression but that’s not happening on a large scale. True, I feel better. But I’m still sorta’ lost on the weekends with what to do with myself. I know. I know. I just need to put myself out there and expand my circle of friends but at this age I figure why bother. Still, some company to share a movie or dinner would be nice once in awhile. I did not see this isolation coming. It’s hard to grow old. And I’m not even there yet in terms of assisted living and a Latino changing my shitty bed sheets.
I did mention to my doctor at my last exam that I felt I was ‘struggling with depression.’ And you know what? He said nothing; he did nothing. Basically he segued into another health matter regarding my blood pressure. I’ve got his number on speed dial when I step off the ledge: “Oh hai there. I’ll make it quick: I’m jumping now. Maybe you should listen when your patients reveal their inner thoughts a tad more.” But I digress. And, too, I am not jumping anytime soon. Still, those moments that race my heart and quicken my breathing– those abject panic moments of “I’ll die alone,” still have me gazing skyward and wondering if saint Judy Garland really is high above where bluebirds fly. It’s gotta’ be a better place. It just has to be.