But not today.
Could be the rampant insomnia last night.
Could be this horrid cold that knocked me flat and now has made it almost impossible to talk, a hacking cough ready to erupt at any moment. Could be all the meds I'm taking, trying to maintain the upper hand.
Could be my sugar free experiment. Today is day 8 and while the physical cravings are lessening, I miss, sorely, indulging myself when things get tough. Last night Iz and made chocolate whipped cream and as I watched her eyes light up at the first spoonful, a look of bliss crossing her face as she worked her way through it, I wiped my finger on a towel instead of tasting the treat myself. There's something emotionally powerful about denial. I was so successful at it for so many years but it doesn't seem to be working as well this time.
Could be that I have no creative projects going on and no desire to throw myself into a new one. I don't think I could survive more disappointment, rejection, disinterest. FLOW broke me down and while I came out the other side a far better writer, more confident in my voice and point of view, I'm shakier too. I thought FLOW would change things. It didn't.
Could be that so many people I know are stuck, trapped, weighed down by too much. Too much to do, too many people to take care of, the pain of growing up, the fear of growing old.
Could be that I'm losing the battle with the anxiety that runs through my blood. I can at best manage it, but now it's got the upper hand and I can't shake it off.
Could be that I'm afraid this is it. I've hit my peak and am now sliding into bland oblivion. Nothing to look forward to. Nothing to dream about. Nothing that takes the edge off this pain, this melancholy, this sameness.
I want to believe this is the worst it'll get.
(After I wrote this I had a full scale anxiety attack—couldn't breathe, couldn't sit in my car, couldn't function. Completely terrifying. Thank god for my husband and tranquilizers. In that order.)