Friday, June 11, 2010

Writing as Therapy


It’s Wednesday at 8:30 AM and I wonder if I have anything to say.  I haven’t yet decided just how I feel except that I’m dreading my decision to go out to walk in this 32º wind.  Jesus.  What was I thinking?  Maybe Loren will call and cancel.  
My house looks like a slob of a writer lives here.  There are two cans of soup sitting on the drier, and I walk past them many times in a day and think I should put them away.  But I don't.  There are two small stacks of mail with which I need to deal.  There are glasses and coffee cups and spoons and a box that brought my records I ordered from Amazon and my Brita pitcher and that’s all.  The dishwasher is half empty, glaring at me to finish the job so I can clear away some of the shit on the counters.

In my room, I can hardly see the top of my dresser.  I’ve been knitting like a fiend, working on ruffled scarves for my Savannah girls.  They look like a pile of brightly colored snakes.  The rest of the dresser is covered with New Yorkers I’m trying to finish reading so the pile doesn’t grow any taller.  There are photos, some jewelry boxes, my notions bag, the tiny lamp Kristy gave me.  There’s a pill bottle, a flashlight, a pair of pajama bottoms that should have been put put away days ago.  It’s a real mess, as is my bathroom counter. 

And I don’t care.  Clint wouldn't care either.  

Maybe I’m more depressed than I want to believe.  This messy house is a symptom of depression, and I have to straighten it up in order to stave off the black hole.  See what writing can do for one?  By writing down these things, I have uncovered how I feel and I can start doing something  about it. Now I know how I feel, but when I started this post I had no idea.

Oh, Clint, I miss you so much.

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