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Three weeks ago, I took Phantom into the vet because he was sick. I received a surprising diagnosis, one that was fatal and one that, fortunately, has been somewhat reduced. He may not longer be on death’s door, but he’s still sick. I still have to administer medicine. And while I don’t have to watch his every move because this might be ‘it,’ the moment that I need to humanely end his life, it’s hard not to.

I spent that first week basically unable to do anything — eat, sleep, work, breathe. The anxiety and stress was oppressively heavy. Anyone who talked to or saw me was witness to that. And while things are no longer as dire, it feels as though the wool has been lifted from my eyes. There’s something wrong in my life that I am now painfully aware of, and I can’t forget it. Even if I could, I need to be alert for Phantom’s sake.

Of course, anyone might be a little stressed over this, but I’m already anxious to begin with. And that something so small as a the health of a pet has me spiraling so far downward makes me feel incompetent, like a failure. Every time Phantom refuses a pill, I wonder why I can’t be better at such a small thing.

I’ve fill a lot of the last three weeks with TV shows, just some noise to keep on in the background. There’s not much else to do when the weather has me trapped inside.

But I can’t use this time productively. It takes me longer to get around to do chores or run errands. My Christmas tree is still up. Laundry has piled up on my bed. All of my blogs are forgotten. I’ve forgotten about games that need to be finished. I’ve managed to finish a single book, but many others have languished. My kitchen table has accumulated an embarrassing amount of mail, trash, and empty shopping bags.

I could invite people over to while away some of the time — if only I wasn’t so ashamed of the state of my apartment.

And maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe it’s in my head. Maybe it’s just my anxiety making me feel like everything is worse than it is, you know, the way it does. But that’s one more thing to feel bad about.

Perhaps in time I’ll forget about some of the things that are bothering me just like I occasionally forget about my own mortality and impending death. The feeling of despair will only wash over me and settle in the pit of my stomach briefly before I am able to push it back, to deny that it bothers me.

Or maybe I need a better coping mechanism to deal with life.