Fifty-six days. Fifty-six days without putting pencil to paper. Fifty-six days without sitting in front of my computer, Word loaded, a blank page created just for me. Fifty-six days without a blog post shared on Twitter and Facebook.
Fifty-six days.
I missed the earliest signs of my slow slippage into a mild depression that stagnated my spring. Did it spawn from a wicked oak allergy that pulled me into listlessness? Did it feed hungrily upon the fatigue that mixed with frustration and cursed me after the new year? Did it sneak into my daily routine, rote as brushing my teeth or donning my shoes?
Everything turned sluggish, laborious—weighty.
My words bogged and clogged, never pulling out of my mood long enough for me to physically sit down to write until tonight. When I reached for my camera, the delight of finding a perfect field of wildflowers aborted in aggravation because of impatience and dissatisfaction. I found one flower, but not a field.
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| One flower, but not a field |
Yesterday, I realized that I don’t even sing as I drive to work or run errands. I can’t remember the last time I be-bopped to a tune in carefree abandon.
Seeking sunshine and positivity drives my personality, making these months of hopelessness highly unusual. I plunged into probing and prodding down to a source, and through reflection recognized a few causes for my slide into a funk—and know that as I put light onto these hidden memories and experiences, I will write—and write, and write, and write.
I will end this ugly hiatus from life’s joys.
Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
