Bloggenschtern

(That’s what she said)

Someone recently asked me, “Are you EVER going to write again?”. Up until this very minute (when I was uncertain as to whether or not I would remember my WordPress password) I would have said a resounding no. Like ‘Fuck, no’.

I kind of gladly disappeared. I truly thought that no one would notice. But they did. And they commented on it. That was – strangely – pleasantly surprising. So I would like to explain why. As factually as I am able.

Since the end of February, I have been down in a hole, examining everything I say and do. And quite honestly, I have not felt very funny.

I didn’t know what to do anymore. I didn’t know what to say anymore.

As I examined what I considered to be funny, I came to realize that most of the things I ‘ve written about, complained about, tried to be humorous about, were entrenched in what some would call White Privilege. I realized that I cast about griping about events with such White Fragility, that I am shocked that I am not suffering from that brittle bone syndrome thingy.

It is difficult to defend being a reticent Snowflake. Yet that’s what I am. I’ve also been told repeatedly that I’m funny.

That’s what I am, too.

It is a tricky thing, dismantling funny. Descent down into the hole made me really shine a light on the why of why I’m funny. Discovery? Maybe I’m just an elitist asshole. Who can say?

So, instead of babbling on, in ignorance and with potential insensitivity, I chose to step off.

Down into the hole.

And let me tell you, that hole? Fucking unforgiving. As I plummeted, there were endless re-examinations of self. There was mental health stuff. Physical health stuff. The further down I explored, the more stuff presented itself. More action items for the seemingly never-ending list that I could not complete in three lifetimes.

Here are some facts that I’ve learned while I’ve been gone:

I am currently suffering from depression. Not super-debilatating, but pretty darned bleak nevertheless. I made a passing comment (mistake?) to my GP during a phone session that, if I ever had to go into the hospital for COVID, I don’t know how hard I would try to get better. This started an avalanche of unwanted attention. It reminded me of a movie scene from a war movie on a submarine, where they get hit – lights go out, there is a booming klaxxon alarm, red emergency lights flash on and off, people panic and yell and flail their arms in the air, and everyone’s being thrown back and forth willy-nilly.

So, as a result of all this, I’m on anti-depressants. I have to check in weekly about my mood scale. I have talk therapy with a counsellor.

I am poorly-functioning diabetic. Because (partly) I eat my feelings, my blood sugar numbers of late haven’t been acceptable. I now have a device glued to my arm, the data from which my medical team can access. (I call it my ankle monitor).

I have a nutritionist. Soon, I have talk therapy with a eating disorder specialist about how to un-become being the archetypical overweight diabetic.

I am down the hole. With, apparently, a lot of people.

Thanks to all the help I’m seeking, all the muck I’m wading through, all the mentally exhausting work I’m working through, there seems to not only be a bottom to this hole, but a ladder.

From the rung I stand on, I can see – up in the distance – blue sky.

And if you’ll allow me, I’ll try to come back.