I've given in to it - the "mood." The mood that comes and goes - the "lonelihood" that perches on my shoulder and taunts me, mocking the fact that I have isolated myself and am totally devoid of personal, social contact, of my own choosing. Maybe it is doubly wretched because I have dared to venture out recently and tasted freedom.
I do not like summer. In fact, I detest the long, hot, weary days. I do not mind the daylight; it's the miserable, scorching heat that sucks the life out of everything. I miss my yard. This yard is overridden with black widows, ants and an occasional roach. No telling what lives underneath us! At the other house, I had the soothing sounds of our pond and fountain and the wind ruffling the palm fronds. I miss all of that.
I suppose I am finally in a state of grieving for what was and angry that it is no longer. I have spent hours justifying and rectifying; now I just want to be angry and brood. It's a dangerous state to be in for me because I cannot allow myself to go too deeply and become bogged down in the muck of self-pity. But in order to work through something you cannot deny its existence.
My spouse's words reverberate through my ears: "I feel like I'm living in a rundown hotel." And this is my fault. I can go weeks without tears and then in a day go through a year's supply.
Scientifically speaking, tears contain a chemical that helps elevate our moods. If this is true, then tomorrow I should be on Cloud Nine.