A weird thing has been happening for the last week.
I’ve been sleeping.
Like, I’ve been sleeping without any pharmaceutical assistance. No Advil PM. No Benadryl. No fancypants prescription. Just Cha Cha, Foxie Doxie, and a whole lot of exhaustion.
Foxie obviously has badger hunting in his ancestry, because he loves getting in a burrow. And by “in a burrow,” I mean “underneath any sort of fabric.” The bed is his natural habitat, and I love to listen to his little snorts of satisfaction. For Foxie, all this time sleeping is a dream come true.
For me, it’s a dream come true as well. I’m starting to appreciate that I spent a year and a half trying to operate at someone else’s speed, a speed that is waaaaaaaaaay different than mine. And I’m fucking tired, you know?
But mostly, I’m finding comfort and I’m happy, and so I’m sleeping.
Today Dorothy commented that I seem much happier since I’m not being told on a daily basis the myriad of things that are wrong with me.
She’s got a point.
I’m just alright, you know?
I must admit, though, that I worry about this blog. Being in crisis provides an endless array of writing topics. Having a mental breakdown at Walgreens? Being stalked by your Ex-Ex? Oh, yeah. I got your blog fodder right here.
But being happy and settled means you write about … what? Rainbows? Unicorns? Help a sister out. I want to continue to be honest and engaging, but without every post being about grilled cheese sandwiches and knitting.
Although I do love grilled cheese sandwiches and knitting.
But putting this in writing is probably the kiss of death. I’ll find out that much like an insurance co-pay, a Shit Quota starts over at the beginning of the year and I will have drama galore.
But probably not. I’m due. I just hope I still have something worthwhile to write about.