I should have expected it would happen, but when the melancholy set in–took me over, left me drowning and gasping for comfort–I was stunned. Knocked on my ass. It’s only been a handful of hours since I’ve returned to my real life, and the week between Christmas and New Year is always a ghostly, fleeting time, so maybe I shouldn’t feel as weak as I do for letting the thoughts play on an endless loop of “Why didn’t you…?” and “Maybe I should…”
It comes fast and loose once my head hits the pillow. ”Why didn’t you spend more time with her?” ”How could you not have realized she was that sick?” “I miss her. I miss daddy and P. even more.” ”I hate LA, this fake, false, bright, plastic toy of a town.” ”Maybe I should move back home to be with my family.” ”Could I really be happy in Dallas?”
I recognize the depression cocooning me seductively, whispering promises of false peace. How can I write–how can I care–about mascara and conditioner? I open my website, stare at the screen. Close it. Visit Facebook, listlessly clicking for seconds before closing that, too. I want to write, but the writer’s block…oh, yes, it is strong with this one.
D. and I went to see Marley and Me tonight, and on the drive home, she suggested I write something, anything, even if I didn’t feel like it. It feels good to have the juices flowing ever so slightly. Maybe tomorrow I can make further progress; clear this fog. Intellectually, I recognize this feeling will not last forever. I will laugh, play, love; I will have the desire and drive to write something that’s not utterly indulgent or self-pitying. But for now, it’s baby steps. One word, one day, at a time.