Funny how quiet I’ve been since my birthday.
It’s not for lack of thoughts, or notes, or full blown essays. It’s just that I haven’t posted them, or published them. I was feeling guilty about that until last week when I read on PlanetSark that “even writing in your head, or thinking about writing, is still writing”
It’s not that I haven’t had anything to say. It’s quite the opposite. I’ve had too much to say. Monkey Brain.
Thousands of disjointed thoughts.
Happy, Sad, Angry, complacent, depressed, sappy, looking back, looking forward, and on, and on, and on…
Maybe it’s because I don’t want to be able to look back and see how unsettled and fragile I’ve been feeling. Not 24/7 mind you, but pretty consistently.
Partly situational, partially from memory, partially from circumstance.
I am envious of those around me while simultaneously frustrated by my own “stuckness” (my word)
I felt the wall of sad begin to engulf me as soon as the calendar flipped to September. It was inevitable. Sadness is a muscle memory. As much as you will mentally try to ward it off and distract yourself from it, it will sneak up on you when you least expect it, and strangle you without warning or discretion. Last year at this time, on this day actually, my world was shattered for the 2nd time in as many weeks. I had begun to feel like I would never stop crying. That I would never know true happiness again.
I did (stop crying), and I did (know happiness), but it was a long time coming.
The past couple of weeks I feel like I’ve been in a fog. Unable to muster up any energy, stuck in a vicious cycle of insomnia and narcoleptic like sleepiness, in between bouts of anxiety. Yes, the poo-poo platter of depression. Nothing was interesting or joyful. I got up each day and moved aimlessly through the motions.
This week I feel like I’m coming out of it. Finally. Mercifully.
I’m making plans. Taking steps. Settling in. Focusing.
more to come…