Today is typical. Though we have had some lovely, sunny, sweet un-November-like days, today is not one of them.
It’s grey and damp and drizzly.
Not a day to lift one’s spirits…
I have often said that I do not suffer with clinical depression. That is not to say, however, that I am immune to situational “sadnesses” or “the blues” or “the blahs” ~ and lately, that is how I’ve been feeling.
There are some solid reasons for this.
One is a feeling of worthlessness. Right now, I am not gainfully employed for the first time in my life. I am awaiting a call from an Eating Disorders Clinic that will tell me I must report the next day. I have no idea when that call will come, thus, it is rather futile to look for any kind of job.
I am not working. I am not writing, as you well know.
My posting here has practically stopped cold.
I am not feeling inspired or inspiring…
Actually, I could work, if I could concentrate. I have an ongoing freelance gig. But I also have a sense of lethargy that makes motivation seem like an Everest I cannot even imagine climbing.
These days, I am not going to my gym and the only exercise I manage is the two or three 40-minute walks I take with my dogs each day.
If you must know, I’m spending far too much time with my Kindle. I’m reading books about people who succumb prematurely to cancer or other illnesses. Steve Jobs.(Here’s an intriguing Jobs story in The Sunday New York Times.) Wendy Wasserstein. Quintana Roo, Joan Didion‘s daughter. Very happy stuff.
Last week, on a rather glorious night, actually, with clear starry skies and bright moonlight, on one of my nocturnal walks, I tripped on one of my dog’s leashes and landed hard on the pavement of a quiet street. It was very late for dog walking. My favourite time, if you must know. About 11:30 p.m.
Bleeding and Bruising…
And there I lay, in pain, in shame, in shock. I broke my fall with my knees and my forehead, which was bleeding.
What hurt most, though, was the fact that my little Dandies stood there, heartlessly. Did they approach me? Did they lick my wounded forehead that was quickly swelling as well as bloodied? Did they give a shit, which they depend upon me to allow them to do and which I was, at that very moment, carrying in little knotted bright blue plastic bags in my fanny-pack?
No. No. No…
That hurt, more than my crumpled and maimed body, lying on the pavement.
My beloved canine wards could not have cared less about me ~ their caregiver, their walker, their groomer. All they wanted were the cookies they were confident of getting and gobbling on our return home. (I do not believe they are dog therapy candidates.)
Anyway, I have decided to try to keep up with my writing. It gives me a feeling of accomplishment. Will these sorry thoughts be of any use to you? I have no idea.
But the act of writing will help me and I’m determined to continue. Once a day. No matter what.
That way, at least, I may not feel as worthless? That’s my plan.
Thanks for listening.