I’m out sick today. I rarely ever call out, much less call out while traveling for work. So, here I sit, with the heat turned up to 80, a comforter doubled up on me and feeling like I’m freezing. I can’t stay out of the bathroom with both orifices somehow finding a limitless supply of..stuff. I had to cancel my appointments today; my appointments that have been made for weeks in advance. I’m booked out 7 weeks, so these customers will have to hang in the balance until April now. That’s hardly fair to them, but I’m too weak to be out of bed, much less be in front of people. Tomorrow will likely be the same. I’m not sure how to handle the flight home tomorrow. I’m likely contagious, still. My wife thinks I have norovirus. I guess I’ll scrub the hell out of my hands and avoid any contact with people. I’ll request to sit alone in the back of the flight if there’s room for it. I’ll need to be near the bathroom anyway. My company makes billions of dollars every year and I’m a profitable employee, but yet I feel guilty for being sick on a trip. I feel really bad for the clients. I’ve no room in my schedule to fly back in for a day or two to make up this time. They need training and I simply can’t deliver.

I suppose I should get some more rest. I’m glad there’s enough bandwidth for Netflix. I’ve been binge-watching The Walking Dead. Seems appropriate, all things considered.


It’s been seemingly forever since I’ve posted. I’ve a few drafts that never managed to get published. I’ve wondered why I can’t seem to find anything to say. To be truthful though, it’s more that I’m embarrassed and ashamed of what I have to say. I’ve been depressed again for the last few months. Some days are ok, but most aren’t. My life continues to go on, but I feel like I’m asleep in the passenger seat or on a ride that nobody else can see full of dark and winding trails. So, there it is. I’ve been fighting it will all of my being and yet I feel somewhat defeated. I feel like I should be doing better. I take my meds consistently; I never miss a dose. I follow the advice and do the things I’ve been taught in therapy when things get bad. I survive. Actually, survive is generous. I exist. I’m baffled by this. I feel like an entitled prick. I have a wonderful marriage, a great job, we just bought a house and aside from a few things, am in good health, yet I have the audacity to be depressed. How dare I? What the hell do I have to be depressed about? Anything bad that’s happened happened long ago. It’s been dealt with and talked to death in therapy.

I don’t really know what else to say. United changed my damn gate again, so I get to go trotting across O’Hare again.