It’s Monday again, of course.  I won’t get into any of the usual stuff I discuss about Mondays, except to note that, outside of the minds and artifacts of humans*, Monday doesn’t exist.  It’s just another day, and each day is not fundamentally different from another day.  Wild creatures do not get the weekend off, for they have no such concept.  On the other hand, they don’t exactly have enforced workdays or work weeks and all the many artificial but very real stressors that humans have created.

I am still off NSAIDs except for some limited aspirin, and I am quite stiff and sore, a fact which is particularly difficult to ignore in my thumbs as I write this.  My urinary signs may be improving; certainly I’ve been working on intervening in the issues, not least of which intervention is the aforementioned curtailment of NSAIDs.  I’m not sure how this will go, but I guess I will find out, one way or another.

I haven’t read any books of any kind‒including audio books‒in almost a week now.  There are several processes behind this fact, but a big part of it seems to be a general anhedonia.  Nothing is very interesting to me.  I don’t even feel any particular interest in the new Spider-Man movie, which would normally engender excitement.

Heck, I honestly don’t even feel much about Avengers: Doomsday, and Doctor Doom is probably my very favorite villain (and one of my favorite overall characters).  Podcasts also seem boring, and so do various videos and shows, educational, fictional, or anywhere in between.

I don’t really do anything in my spare time, to be honest, other than try to distract myself, and that’s becoming more difficult.

My boss, on Saturday, suggested that maybe after work, before I go “home”, I should stop somewhere and get the urinary stuff checked out, and I said, “Yeah, I don’t see that happening.”  The prospect of taking care of such things in my “spare” time is about as natural a feeling as the prospect of spontaneously levitating.

It’s not in my nature to be much good at taking care of myself.  I’m not really inclined to take care of much of anything administrative in my life, to be honest**.  I pay rent and electric and water and cable/internet bills, because not doing so would be a great and immediate inconvenience, but other things are not in my wheelhouse.  They are not salient to me, and I don’t know how to make them salient without them already being salient.

So, yeah, if the issues I’m having are precursors to, or symptoms and signs of, some more serious problem, well…that’ll be that, won’t it?  As I said to my boss a few sentences after my above reply about seeking help, “Basically, I’m just waiting for something to kill me, anyway.”

That’s the state of my life now, and it has been that way to varying degrees for quite some time.  I believe this qualifies for the term “passive suicidal ideation”.  I don’t just experience the passive form, of course, but it is more common, or more frequent, and slightly more persistent than the active version.

Make no mistake, though:  for the last dozen years or so, not a day has gone by, as far as I can remember, that I didn’t have at least some moments of active SI.  And, of course, I have many methods available; I make sure to keep things that way.

So, yeah, one of these days my blog may just stop, and if it does, there’s a good probability that it will have been because I stopped being so passive.

I make no predictions, and I certainly don’t engage in threats or warnings.  I’m just trying to clear the air, and explain why, left to my own devices, I’m not liable to seek any medical help for anything unless it is so acutely painful as to be impossible to ignore, like a kidney stone.

I figure that sooner or later, some infection or maybe some malignancy will come along and take everything out of my hands‒at least unless I take matters into my own hands before that time, which is eminently possible.  I’ve said before that it would be nice if I got some kind of final crisis that at least allowed me to say goodbye to the people I love, but I recognize that nature doesn’t promise nor owe me any such convenience.

It doesn’t matter.  Quite possibly‒probably‒no one would want to come say goodbye to me anyway.  It would not surprise me, I’ll admit.  It would be sad, but I would probably consider it entirely appropriate.  Why should anyone care if I am going to die, anyway?

Okay, well, on that chipper, cheery note, I’ll bring this post to a close.  It’s already too long, honestly.  But I do hope that you all have a good week collectively and good weeks individually.

*And humanoids, I suppose.

**That’s a weird expression, isn’t it?  Does it imply that if I don’t say it, you cannot assume that I am ever honest?  But surely, claims of honesty are just the sorts of things that liars would make, just as religious texts will claim to be true and infallible.  “You have to be trusted by the people that you lie to, so that when they turn their backs on you, you’ll get the chance to put the knife in.”