I have been interweaving in and out and round about, with something that becomes depression and then anxiety and then despair. I think despair is the worst. Where is the way out?
But this morning, I realized that HERE is where I wanted to write. Here is where I wanted to land, here is where I wanted to spill out my heart.
I was going to write about C, and how sad I am that the writing group we began together fizzled before it ever reached a crescendo, and how my writing ended up coming out as mental health story, that she shared with her husband, without asking my consent. I guess that is how circumscribed her life had become, and how little she trusted herself to critique my work. She shared it with her husband, but perhaps only because our "writers group" had shrunk to the two of us. And then she up and shrunk it to nothing, when she told me she was moving much farther west, to the town where my dear friend K no longer lives.
No, but C never made it out of town. She's still here and I am glad I have not run into her lately. Our last lunch together was a total fiasco. I was supposed to treat, and in the end, I felt so much not myself that I stood my ground and did not pay for her and my bill. Oh but that is another, crazy story.
No, the reason I am here today, on this page, is to realize that it has only been one month, one month already, since I told my dear family member that I could no longer accept their phone calls. Reading what I wrote on November 1st, I see how kind my words were. I apologized for not being able to take private caller calls. My family member received an invitation to write letters instead.
Of course, it will be a hot desert swept day in December when I get a letter from her. We both live in wet wintry climes...But so it goes....