Either the Lexapro isn’t working yet and things are getting worse in the meantime, or the Lexapro is making things worse. I don’t really care which is the case. I’m beginning to panic that it won’t ever work, and I have to spend three more weeks feeling like this before I can try something else.
I go home for lunch and sit in silence reading An American Childhood by Annie Dillard as I stuff down a ham sandwich that tastes dry and empty. I turn a page and glimpse my chipped nailpolish. They need repainting. I select a dainty light pink color that a happy person might wear.
My lunch hour is running out, so I dry my nails with the fan I keep on my bedside table for white noise. It drowns out the tinnitus at night. The curtains are drawn and it is cloudy outside. The grey room seems to be filled with smoke. As I stand in front of the fan and stare at the wall feeling the cold air whoosh by my hands, the dog watches me from the doorway, a worried expression on his face, as if he is anticipating having to catch me should I fall.
We are both creatures of habit, which is why we get along so well. We become afraid when anything is out of the ordinary.
I want to lie down on the bed and sleep. I think about how sometimes people who are depressed suffer from insomnia. Sleep is the only thing rescuing me from this unbearable existing. The existing won’t go away. I am always existing. I can’t stop existing. I don’t know how the insomniacs do it.
I go back to work instead, the polish on my nails still soft.