Life is a strange contrast at the moment. I am on call for the week, so my days are run-off-my-feet busy between my regular clinic schedule and the added inpatient service. I am constantly scribbling notes in a chart while balancing my cell phone on my shoulder, or listening to my resident present a patient while I not so inconspicuously scan blood work on the computer. I start my days anxious and I finish them overwhelmed, uncertain of where I will get the energy to do it all again tomorrow.
And then I go home. My pager is relatively silent most evenings, my apartment even more so. My dining room table is empty, the jacket and wallet and keys that used to live there now scattered across the dining room table at my ex-girlfriends' family home. Beyond feeding myself and the two cats, there is nothing that I have to do. I read for a few minutes, then watch tv for a few minutes, then stare at the cats willing them to be better conversationalists. Occasionally they purr, and I tell myself that they are trying to make me happy, although I am well aware that cats are inherently assholes.
I don't know what to do with myself.
For two years, my life was filled with her and with the bustle of activities that filled her restless, extroverted life. The first day after the breakup, my introverted self reveled in the stillness of her absence, but as time passes stillness transforms into tedium. There is no shortage of things I should do - the not quite unpacked suitcase from our trip is still on my bedroom floor, and there are always dishes - but I am longing to want to do something. I am five-year-old me, whining at my mother: "I'm bored".
"Clean your room," she replies, and the answer is as unsatisfying now as it was 34 years ago.