I’ve been in a funk, and I don’t want to get out of it.
I’ve felt this weight on my chest, and today it feels like it’s on my face. To be fair, it’s been an appendage for most of my life. I felt it acutely when I was a teenager. It almost killed me. Now, at 49, it’s mellower, but still makes its presence known.
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It has been five weeks since my 16 month old dog Melfi was suddenly hit by a truck.
He hasn’t come back to me, even though I’ve wanted him to, if only in spirit.
I heard that sometimes animals and other loved ones come back after their passing. I’ve shooed away other spirits when I’ve felt scared, but I wanted Melfi.
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I am determined to have a good summer this year. It’s time.
The last few years I have fallen out of shape, physically and emotionally. Fatigue became a synonym for laziness. Few things, if any, went my way. After what seemed like a lifetime of fighting, I gave up. If my body wanted to keep breathing, that was its business. I, as a matter of choice, didn’t want to do anything.
So in the evenings, after caring for my daughter, I would vegetate on the couch, cover my head with a blanket, and create a small hole for breathing, which my body still compelled me to do.
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On my desktop, I have a quote from Stephen King: “Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration, the rest of us just get up and go to work.” It’s been on a post it note on the top left hand corner of my desktop for months. I read it every time my computer turns on. Yet, as my post timeline indicates, I haven’t worked on my writing as much as waiting to be inspired.
