Vacancy

I have a little habit that some have tried to dissuade me of, and that my husband just tolerates. Or maybe he’s surrendered because he knows it’s useless to fight me.

I check out. Mentally, physically, I give myself a little break from living. I reach a certain tolerance point for life, and then I just take some time off.

Checking out for me involves an outrageous amount of sleep, even though I don’t feel rested. It involves the barest minimum of movement, precludes toothbrushing, underwear optional, and dirt sweatshirts mandatory.

I checked out this weekend. I didn’t do dishes, I didn’t cook meals, I didn’t even throw away garbage. I just laid on the couch or in bed and lollygagged.

The problem is, none of this is actually as restorative as I imagine it will be. I’ve been checked out for three days now, and I feel worse. I always feel worse. I feel stagnant and cramped from not moving. My neck hurts from sleeping on the couch, and my left hip hurts from having the dog lay on me for such long stretches of time.

What makes me check back in is when I become so tired of stasis that I have to function again. In the meantime, I’ve failed to meet obligations, I’ve avoided all communication with the outside world, and my house has gotten even dirtier than it was to begin with.

I missed an April 5 deadline for something that was supposed to be a fun craft project. But it felt monumentally mountainous, so I used it as part of the avalanche of reasons to check out.

I’m ready to come back now. I threw away my Kleenexes from watching so many weepy movies this weekend (I even cried at the ones without sad bits), and I made a dry and overcooked stew (Keira Knightley was on HBO, I didn’t care about cooking times).

I’m moving again. I wrote this. I’m on my way back to the surface. I hate checking out, and I never feel better, but, each time preceding it, checking out feels like the answer to all my problems. Really, it just creates new ones.