I’m having trouble writing again. Even though there is plenty of material to draw from, I can’t seem to pull it all together into something that makes sense to someone besides me. (Oh hell, who am I kidding—it doesn’t make any sense to me either.) My thoughts are innumerable, but the process is like having a football-stadium-full of people try to get out via a single narrow door at the same time: some eventually squeeze through, but slowly and painfully.
My therapist, Kathy, suggests I let myself off the hook, that it’s OK to let things be the way they are for now because my Muse will—eventually—take a dump on my head and the floodgates will open. She’s right; I should, but it’s frustrating to have so much going on in my mind and be unable to offload at least some of it in my writing. I have two articles that I need to write (for pay!) and I can’t grab hold of enough substance to get them done. Gahhh!
Meanwhile, I’m not sleeping well—it usually takes me till 1 or 2 AM to fall asleep, and sometimes my thoughts race so fast that all I do is doze on and off throughout the night. I think some of it has to do with my obsession about making sure Will is still breathing. He is nowhere close to dying at this point, but who knows when that will change? It’s like waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop. Ironically, these past couple of weeks have been his best since we got home from our trip, with minimal nausea and vomiting, and that usually only happens early in the morning.
What I’ve got to keep in mind is something Kathy said about worrying over the future: it does nothing but ruin the present. Anticipatory grieving is normal, but this is time Will and I can’t get back. This lying in bed, ruminating until the wee hours, and waking up in panic mode are for the birds. I remember all too well doing the same things back in 2014, and we all know how well THAT worked for me. I have the hospital records to prove it.
OK, so there are a few thoughts that made it through that metaphorical door I was talking about. But there are a million and one more, swirling round and round, wanting to be expressed all at once. It’s a hell of a time to be depressed and between mental health prescribers; I could use a little boost in my Klonopin dose or an uptick in one of my mood stabilizers. But I also know that what I’m going through is a part of life’s journey, and you can’t always medicate that away.