Having said nothing here for weeks, I feel obliged to explain. It’s not that nothing has been happening. Rather, too much has been happening, and there is very little of it that I can talk about here. So instead of opening my laptop and sharing, what I end up doing is sleeping too much and attempting to wake myself up in the world outside of the computer, spending time with people who make me feel safer, and lying on the couch with Daphne in the crook of my arm. I often think, I am not well. Sometimes I think I can’t stand another moment. My new doctor thinks that there is a possibility that I have schizoaffective disorder, as opposed to bipolar disorder, due to the psychoses of the last four or five years; she also mentioned traits of a personality disorder that hasn’t been mentioned in my charts since 2003. But what do you make of that, really. So I try to ignore it.
Today Chris and I bought things for a picnic in the backyard. Iced rose tea and chilled white wine and pickled okra, genoa salami, prosciutto, carrots. He is reading One Hundred Years of Solitude. I just finished They Came Like Swallows. Book recommendations highly desired.
Thank you, darlings, starlings.