I have jumped out of bed at the crack of 13:37 HRS. This is the time that I told Google Home to wake me up from my nap. I’m racing. I’m writing. I’m fighting a demon. Today I’m going to win. It will be back tomorrow, the demon, but today I’m going to win.
Months have passed as I’ve worried about this blog. Worried, and not written.
Has it been years? I’m not going to stop writing now to check. That would be procrastinating. And Google Home’s gentle reminder has at least reminded me. It has not sounded an alarm. Its noise rarely has any authority over my actions, although I do give it clear instructions before I sleep.
Nevertheless, I am up. And I’m writing.
#Amwriting, as writers say on social media, when they really want to convince people that they are writing. I. Am. Writing.
Did you miss me? I miss me every day. Sorry about that.
What am I writing about? Not the Current International Crisis today. Not that. I won’t even mention it. Which one, anyway? A few crises have developed in our collective absence–our isolation. No. I won’t even entertain the Crisis issue.
My crisis then. I’m writing about my crisis. It is, after all, my blog. Perhaps my crisis will help you with yours. But for now, I just write. I just run as fast as I can, metaphorically, from the fluttering, sinking, roller-coaster-but-not-in-a-good-way feeling that warns me I am in panic mode. This, dear readers, is me, fending off a panic attack. When I can’t run anymore, I will go back to sleep; hopefully I’ll nap until bedtime. The days are long.
Do you find that the days are long lately? So very long.
Also, I may snack.
I took my trusty Lorazapam. I napped. Now, I’ve removed my nap mask and adjusted my eyes to the afternoon light that fills my basement bedroom (so that I can ignore the fact that I prefer to be in the basement, always). I’ve jumped out of bed and started writing. I’m tired of thinking about it, reading about it, talking about it, and fearing it.
“Fearing what?” I imagine you ask (which means you’re reading this far, and thank you for that).
Not The Crisis. Not consciously, anyway. No. I fear writing. And that, my friend, is because of The Crisis, which is not my crisis. My crisis is to decide whether to write or not to write. My crisis has risen because of The Crisis.
Did time stop? Back in March, 2020, when we received word, you know, about The Crisis? It did not. But it felt like it did. For a while we could all keep running. The Crisis did not slow us down. We could run, as if nothing needed to change.
Then, for a while, didn’t we all go to sleep? Like Dorothy in the poppy field, didn’t we doze off, dreaming? We woke sometimes to talk among ourselves about how sleepy we felt. So very, very sleepy.
I was excited. I was going to write like mad! I was going to clean my house, too. Top to bottom! That didn’t happen, either.
We’ve been traumatized. We are in survival mode. That’s what people say about The Crisis. We chat on social media. We share articles that experts have written to explain how we are feeling, and why. “Oh!” we say, “That’s why we feel this way!” We cyber-pat each other on the back, and go back to sleep.
And we sleep some more, in between figuring out how to work, and play, and live.
And I am writing. Maybe soon, I will say something.