A Stage of Grief; or Disciplining the Discipline

stages-of-griefDay 2

I’m stuck in a stage of grief.  I gaze out the window overlooking a snowy prairie and a charmingly named furniture store called The Dump, and a mental tape in my head plays: I’m only here temporarily. My motivation wanes.  I consider trial leasing a car to acquire a bit more independence here in the ‘burbs, despite not having driven for 20 years. I’m only here temporarily.  The determination leeches away.  My friends and family reassure me that my apartment is lovely and decorated beautifully, it’s really not much smaller than the condo. I’m only here temporarily. Satisfaction dwindles.  I sit at the computer poised to say – something.  I’m only here temporarily.  The procrastination kicks in.

I am only here temporarily, until the summer of 2016 when my credit has healed enough to let me purchase something. But that’s over 18 months away – a year and a half of living to do.  But as the days go by and I go through the motions, something inside keeps me from smoothly accepting the permanence of this particular transition.  What I knew is completely gone against my will: the job, the career, the mental wherewithal, the condo, the lifestyle. It’s so damn final.  I recognize nothing but my friends.  They ask how am I doing in the ‘burbs and I always answer: adjusting.  How long does it take to adjust?  My pragmatic self is silent – strangely so.  I check in on my sartorial psyche Jodi, Jada, and Julie but they are silent too.  Well, not Jodi; I suspect she’s the one resisting change, resisting acceptance.  I’m not sure what to do for her.

This feeds a kind of mental paralysis. I procrastinate and magnify issues until I’m an inert, anxious, fearful blob.  There are things I need to do: physical therapy, going for the final post-cataract exam, getting new glasses, test driving, exploring my new world, writing.  Those same baby steps, all over again.  I think about toddlers and their determination to walk just like everybody else. After three and half years of barely holding my life together with spit and wire, I want a “normal” existence too.  If psychological acceptance isn’t happening right now, then determination and discipline is the only way through.

So I plant my butt in a chair and type while that tape plays: I’m only here temporarily, and remind myself that I don’t need an ideal setting to pour out my thoughts.  While my psyche still mourns for what was lost, part of me must look forward and do somethingIf you can’t write about the fandom or HIM, Dr. G. says with a twinkle in her eye, then write what you feel now.

So here I am. Writing.

Serene Sunday: Winter Wonderland

Happy New Year all!  Hope you enjoyed your holidays.  Mine was festive and filling – very filling – which leads me to one of two resolutions I made.  Usually I resolve to not make resolutions because I’ll be sure to keep that one.  But this year I really need to accomplish two things.  The second is to lose the all the weight gained during my dark period.  I’ve done it before and will do it again.

The first is to WRITE.  Dr. G. mandated that I park my butt and put fingers to the keyboard.  Every day.  One story.  One paragraph.  One word.  It doesn’t matter what about what as long as I discipline myself to get the words out and over the dreaded Writer’s Block.  I’d love to talk about whatshisname, that Armitage dude, but first I need to examine what’s obstructing the flow.   Then I’ll tackle The Crucible, RA’s surprising effect on me, the Marlise Boland debacle, my final opinion on Thorin, a certain blog nomination, and my place in fandom now.

So this is me, writing.  You, Dear Reader, will keep me honest.  Go ahead.  Hold my feet to the fire.  This is important.

In honor of the fresh snow on the ground, the oncoming winter storm, and my love of the fluffy stuff, I present a favorite song probably posted already, but hey, this is a new January.  So here is Winter Wonderland sung by Johnny Mathis.