I miss Scruffy. Our family dog, she was 18 when we had her put down last Sunday, Easter of all days. She was quirky in ways I could appreciate, affectionate, and gentle.
This has not been the only personal tragedy lately I’ve dealt with recently, alas. I have to be honest: I’ve been in the suck lately. (I can also swear again, as it’s long past the end of Lent.) But I’ve still had work to do, both literal and metaphorical. Next week I’m doing absolutely nothing, apart from the day job.
All this week I’ve been critiquing stories for Paradise Lost, the upcoming workshop in San Antonio, TX. I haven’t been to a writing workshop since Viable Paradise in 2012, and I’m really looking forward to it (even if imposter syndrome has come back to taunt me again). I’ll be learning with some incredible talent this week.
I noticed a few days ago that my body felt leaden, like a marionette with sticky joints. I never dwelled on my fatigue during my past depressive episodes, but it has a tangible presentation. I recall times when I’ve attempted to go for a run, when I would make it a quarter of a mile before my body refused to run another step. I thought it was just an issue of motivation. I wonder if J. K. Rowling was onto something when she created Dementors.
One helpful practice I picked up: writing in a journal, describing my emotions and what triggered them. I started this when I realized I don’t have an outlet for some of what I was feeling (yes, I’m thinking primarily about anger here). The act of writing longhand, in (nigh-illegible) cursive, also has a meditative effect. This is separate from my planner-focused bullet journal, for obvious reasons.
Oddly enough, despite a demanding schedule and a total lack of motivation, I’m doing pretty okay. I’m staying just ahead of my commitments, knowing what I can postpone and what needs doing now. And having a better understanding of my mental state keeps keeps me more even-keeled.
My next post won’t be until May 1. Until then, stay frosty.