So here's the deal: I have just finished a book. It's getting decent publicity, people are buying it (you can buy it too, from Amazon, by clicking on The Ghost in the House: Motherhood, Raising Children and Struggling with Depression), and if you don't want to do that you can read all about it in USA Today. So I have nothing whatsoever to complain about. Except that now I have to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.
This happens to me every time I finish a big project. I don't celebrate getting things done; I go into mourning. This is because I am neurotic as all hell and because I wouldn't know happiness if it rose up and bit me in the butt, which it has several times in my life. I am just way more practiced as misery, and so when I get to these interstices in my life, between projects, my first thought is always, OH MY GOD THIS IS IT. I'LL NEVER FIND ANYTHING USEFUL TO DO AGAIN.
Today I was thinking about how young you have to be to check into the Old Folks' Home, since obviously my usefulness to the human race is done and I have no further business taking up space on the planet.
My husband is familiar with these desolate stretches of my psyche. "Here we go again," he says, and straps on his headphones to watch ESPN. The kids aren't interested in anything except whether they get to stay up past bedtime since there is no school tomorrow (election day). There is nobody here to share my angst except the cat, Roxy, who will share anybody's angst as long as they know how to open a packet of Tender Vittles. So it's me and the cat tonight, sharing our long, dark, lonely night of the soul. It's okay; don't mind me. I'll just be sitting here in the dark, facing the abyss. I'm fine. Really. (Sound of stifled sobs). And so....(deep, heartfelt sigh) to bed.