Support for the writing-constipated

Battling the Black Dog of depression.

It’s not for lack of things to say. Rather the opposite, there’s a bottleneck of scattered throughts stuck where the words come out. Still unable to write anything of substance, barely able to read. Concentration shot, desire to create all but dead.

My 2021 journal has one page scribbled, front and back, and that pretty much garbage. Stuck in the middle is a list of things my therapist said should be first and foremost in my addled brain, advice on bare-minimum concepts of self care during stressful times:





She insisted I write these words down when she could see me do it, in last Saturday’s virtual session. I obeyed, did the things one or two days, then sat up this morning remembering SHIT, I have to account for that today. I bluffed my way through, distracting her with every other problem I could think of. She’s so easy to bump off topic. Not that it wasn’t all legit. It was all legit.

To be honest, I barely remember what things fall under the categories she dictated. Head is intellectual, natch. Or is that meditation and such. Oh, crap. Anyway, I watched an interesting series on English history and read a few paragraphs in a book and called that a day.

Body. I have a pulled bicep tendon, meaning I cannot lift anything or support weight with my left arm. Simple yoga stretches left me in excrutiating pain, unable to even lift that arm for a full day. Arctic temps (- 30 to -35 expected tonight) excuse me from walking. Got points for effort.

Heart. As long as that’s not love, I can work with it.

Considering the week before last I was hardly able to get out of bed when it wasn’t required, this past week was a hive of activity. Now that I have a kitchen, I’m cooking again. I baked bread, roasted chicken, made vegetable soup… Slap me upside the head and call me the Pioneer Woman.

Clementine marmalade!
Greek yoghurt muffins with clementine marmalade!
Chicken wings!

Since the last time I posted, I’ve gotten all settled in the new place. It’s good to be back to the land of mod cons. The Victorian-era building had its charm – well, my apartment did, but the building itself was filthy as hell – but a year without in-unit washer and dryer, dishwasher, and forced-air furnace was an exercise in consternation.

I love decorating and I’ve thrown myself into it here. The sofa arrived yesterday, completing the living room. Very happy with the look.

Mid-century influenced – love it.


Next up: the bedroom/office. Since I spend so much time in there, it deserves much more than its current state, which is basically a drab, grey bed and white walls. I’ve been looking at desks. The leading contender is a corner desk that converts from standing to sitting. Benefits are I wouldn’t be on my ass all day, plus the corner placement leaves more of the walls open.

Which side of the room do I put it on, that’s the burning question. My bed is currently under the window but having the desk in that corner would mean natural light, plus a room with a view. Downside is directly on the other side of that wall are my neighbors, who’d have to hear me yammering away on the phone all day. Sound-proofing? Maybe.

Decorating and arranging things keeps my spirits from crashing too far. I think I’m pretty decent at it. Ditto the cooking. I have big countertops now, a huge gas stove/oven and all the conveniences. I bought myself a knife block with actual sharp knives, not the cheapest stuff I could find. As of today, I have a Cuisinart.

I’m writing this post. And I ordered myself two books for a Valentine’s Day present to myself. Both are positive signs. These next few weeks will be tough on me emotionally, as I pass two milestone anniversaries that break my heart. So I’m filling my life with things I love doing, things that inspire.

Is the writing drought done, I don’t know.

I only know I’m moving forward, which is so much better than sitting stuck.