Since before Christmas, and my sister’s cancer diagnosis, when my mother-in-law was in the midst of her cancer treatments and a friend’s dad was fighting the same ravaging disease, I have not had it in me to write. I don’t know why.
Sure, it’s logical that when so many people you care about have been irrevocably touched by an awful disease that it’s hard to let your mind stray far enough to find words, but I have written through a lot here; more than I even care to rehash (or link to).
While I doubt that anyone would mind if I needed time to sort out this lack of creativity, I would love it if I could find it inside myself to write something for them. A tribute, a rally cry, something to make them smile…anything. Instead, I sit here and stare at the wall in a quasi-funk, feeling sorry for everyone. I hate that. They would hate it too.
But, I feel like my muse is hooked up to a chemo pump and my mojo is being burned away by daily radiation. I know that people I love are hurting and I can’t pretend otherwise.
This state of being miserable just isn’t me. I’m not used to being depressed. I’m always anxious, yes, but not downright sad. This has to change right now. I can’t expect them to put up a good fight when I’m not doing my best to do the same.
So, I’m making a promise to stop this nonsense. It doesn’t do any good to stare at the wall and wish things were different. If that were the case, I’d wish everyone was healthy and that I was in Fiji with a raft and a fancy drink and I would see my muse walking toward me on the beach with a Macbook in hand. Swoon.
Tomorrow is a new day full of hope and opportunity and I’m not going to waste it. It’s the least I can do. For them.