Dormancy, et al.

April 25, 2014 at 9:17 am · Filed under Uncategorized and tagged: back in the saddle, depression, life, motivation, stress, writing

There’s something to be said about hibernation.

While I might balk at the lack of scientific legitimacy to the saying, metaphoric Ostriches may just have the right idea. Simply put, the head in the sand might keep the ocean out of your ears.

Ok, that was simpler in my head, which is now covered in sand. I live in Florida. That’s not too surprising.

Having had said metaphoric avian skull submerged in macroscopic shell and mineral particles, I have gained an interesting perspective. It too is full of sand,

A little hibernation, burrowing in the sand, is good for the soul. Sometimes. Perhaps you may not understand my need to coccoon myself in blankets (physically or not so physically), but the need is there and signifies the necessity for recouperation.

What am I recouperating from, you might ask? Or you might not. Go back to your jelly donut.

Life. Little word, big meaning. According to some opinions, stress in the contemporary society has increased over the last forty years. Have perceptions changed? Likely. Are there significant changes to the stressors? Not much. Babies, friends, jobs, love, loss – haven’t changed much in the 130,000 years that anatomically modern humans began migrating out of the Cradle.

All of the above, and more. We are still hunting and gathering, be it pixels or digits, the pursuit of which consumes us. We rear our young (hopefully without eating them, no matter how tempting that might be), the conquest of which progresses us.

Down at the bottom of the hole, there’s no where else to look but up. From there, I examined. Babies, friends, jobs, love, loss – Stress and I dug a foxhole and hunkered down.

Yes, I am armed. I have daughters, after all.

“I balanced all, brought all to mind. The years ahead seemed a waste of breath. A waste of breath the years behind. In balance with this life, this death.” – W. B. Yeats.

It took a while for me to not see the battle. Everything had to be fought. Every word, every issue, every conflict (real or imaginary) was hailed at the perimeter and shaken down, TSA style.

Even my writing had become adversarial, with the blankness of the page mocking my empty brain. My own empty brain mocking itself in a cyclicly spiraling cascade of time paradoxes and Dr. Who references. Wibbly, wobbly.

Love and Loss had figured in there pretty heavily. I won’t lay into the details, unless you’ve got a lot of time, and can make communicative leaps that might follow my disjointed theories. The voices in my head had nowhere to go but inward, where they did the most harm. Worse yet, I didn’t trust anyone else to tell me otherwise.

So I sank. There was no keeping my head above the waves. I built a nest of blankets and periscope, and then watched from a safe distance. Recon, as it were, sans gilly suit. I let myself feel and heal until I didn’t hear my laptop laughing at me anymore.

OK, really, don’t call the Asylum. I have my own jacket, thanks. I just have an “active” imagination.

Trust was reserved for the very precious few. They were the ones who jumped in the hole, not because they’d be stuck with me, but because they knew the way out. They extended hands and waited until I was strong enough to reach for them.

It wasn’t long ago that the voices in my head started telling stories again. After several years of torment, self doubt, shame, and grieving, I gave all that the middle finger and listened to bards and the witches and magic flying bananas that populate my thoughts (You probably don’t want to know).

Kevlar is zipped. Guns are loaded. Big girl panties are on.

Let’s do this.

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