Starting Over...Again


About That.

Starting Over…Again

If Face Book nags are any clue, it’s been about six weeks since I last posted. I suspect an apology is in order. I apologize to you , my readers and my Muse (assuming he is in a forgiving mood; you never know).

The most I can say is I have seen more and more of myself in the TV ad folks who hold up the lollipop signs of smiley faces to hide their depression. That’s been me for a while; however, I am NOT going to see my doctor about anti-depressant supplement that could make it all worse. I can make it worse all by myself, thank you very much.

“Oh, no,” they say. “The trick is to take the new meds and make it ‘all better.’ “ As if they have abandoned all for the “better living through chemistry” canard.

Of course, “they” are idiots.

The psych wonks will ask, “Well, what was the trigger? What set you off? What could you have done to preclude the slump?” I realize this is current therapy thinking. And it proves useful in some situations; particularly, with this Ghost Pepper of a temper that I have. I’ve learned counting to 100 helps, breathing to 50 helps more. Leaving the situation helps most of all.

However, when that certain shade of the blues hits, it is without warning and without mercy.

This go-round I think I can trace to all the work and anticipation for my favorite holiday, Passover. The weeks leading up fly by, the day comes, and the joy passes. Granted, there were leftovers and matzo left for the remaining eight days, but there came a leaden feeling of not knowing what’s next. My adrenaline dropped more sharply than the Stock Market viewing the farce of trade negotiations with China. Nothing seems as productive, worthwhile or even mildly interesting on that downhill slide.

The news sounded all the same, bitter invective and criticism with no letup. Thoughts go dark (we are doomed as a free nation by our own stupidity). What is seems never enough (if we pay a little more, everything is possible: perfect health and beauty and China or Mexico will pay for it all). New learning settles as the accusation that ‘best’ is never good enough ( buy the new, improved or perish in ignominy; respect the brand, even if it’s a brand on one’s forehead and nothing else).

This leads to the inevitable question: Why bother?

I had many excuses to do very little. The house won’t get any dirtier if I leave it alone…for a few years. I can eat from my freezer stock; no need to try anything new.

Not now, my Muse, I have a headache.

Ironically, as sex alleviates the headache, it seems I ignored the cures until the culmination of my own downward slide: our cat, Sgt. Pepper, died on the 24th. I cried two to three or four times a day before he left us. We took him to the vet, cuddled him and said goodbye. We came back to an empty, quiet house and cleaned.

Then, the question then came hurtling back with underscoring, bold print and in irritating italics: What’s next?

And so here I am: reevaluating, reminiscing, and reflecting. I miss my fuzz ball. Likely, I always will, even if we decide to adopt another critter. The house is quiet. I am alone in the house, for the time being. Each day starts without the routine of even a week ago. For every “Why?” I only this morning heard a reply, “Why not?” What’s next is entirely my choice.

For the most part, I can deal with that. Choices I have made already: I walked away from a temporary teaching job because I knew the emotional, mental and spiritual damage it wreak on me; I backed away from a writing seminar that regurgitated old saws and congratulated the presenters on their achievement (not sure if the achievement was the seminar itself or not).; I tried and decided against an online eating/living redo program which felt like living a cliché from the FDA; I chose to follow my own instincts and have managed pretty well so far.

Notta still has more to say, as do my students. I guess I do, too.

I don’t know how my Muse will react. I may have to get mentally nekkid to tempt him, but as a woman so much wiser than I once said, “I can always be distracted by love (or in my case, depression), but eventually I get horny for my creativity.”* I have to choose it; and the choice IS mine.

*Radner, Gilda. Found May 28, 2019.

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