I have been laboring under a big sad. Mm, that’s almost true — but no laboring, as that implies doing anything and I sure as hell haven’t been doing that.
I hate to admit, for a short time here, the terrorists have won. The headaches, weight gain and body pain have me by the neck and won’t let go — breathing is hard without tears, nonetheless writing, speaking, leaving the house.
It’s like what I imagine metaphorical castration to be — I can think, worry, hope for movement, action, activity, to-do-list starting — let alone finishing. I can will myself to pay that stupid bill that’s now five months overdue. I can plan out how I’ll take the dogs to the park, renew my tags, paint my office. I can imagine finishing the New Year’s post I’ve started. It’s really quite good, you know. The start of it.
But I can’t seem to do it, to finish it, to start.
Interestingly, I didn’t have to tell Kooky Doctor about this — she divined it herself. Which is the right word choice, because then she launched into a faaaaaabulous discussion of the divine — including the Buddha, yogis and, my favorite, Jesus — before handing me a prescription for more anti-depressants and a beta blocker that should both chill me out and stop the headaches.
Let us pray.
I do not tell you this to complain. I do not write this for the comments. I do not sit here for your support. I’ve already got it, I know. And lord, you cannot know how grand that is.
The point, I suppose, I’m trying to make is: LOOK I’M WRITING. Even if this is it. This is what I’ve got. Because I’ve got it. And that’s a start.