I really don’t know how else to begin this other than to say, at the moment I’m overwhelmed. It really doesn’t matter. I’ll get through. There’s little that I know better than how to survive. I’m a survivor. It’s what I do. It’s what I’ve done since childhood.
I’ll qualify all this by saying it probably doesn’t take a lot to overwhelm me. I’ve little doubt many will read the following list and wonder what the big deal is. Just do it, many will say. Yeah, kind of like, Anxiety? Just don’t think about it. It has always amazed me how people who don’t suffer from an affliction can proclaim it no big deal.
Is it any wonder my heroines do amazing things despite their fears?
Currently, I’m nearing the end of my first edit on Exhuming Truths. I’m quite pleased with my progress and the improvements to the novel. There’s nothing else going as well in my life right now. That isn’t surprising. It’s my safe place.
Beyond that? I’m in the last stages of recovering from my HP flareup. I’m still desperate for more sleep after two weeks of averaging about four hours per night. I’m hoping to turn that around next week now that the Prednisone is ending.
*Yes, too little sleep is influencing my perceptions. No one understands that more than me.
I’m muddling along with the website. Muddle, yeah, that’s a good word for it. When it comes to online issues I’m hopeless. Who knows if I’ll have somewhere to post when all this is done. If not, I’ll fix that too. Somehow, some way, I always reach my destination.
Meanwhile, I’m dealing with a dying pet who’s nineteen years-old. His last day will be this coming Saturday. To say it’s an agonizing week is an understatement. I’ve put off the inevitable for months, but even I couldn’t miss the obvious these last few weeks.
I don’t know if it’s a product of my INFJ personality that my mind wants to withdraw when I have so much going on. Probably. I then have to fight my way through what needs to be done. Some of my struggle is left over from the Prednisone overdose a decade ago. My anxiety has been more than double ever since.
Of course, maybe it’s as simple as having been abused. Most likely it’s all of the above.
It doesn’t matter. What matters is getting through. What matters isn’t whether I’m fearless, but whether I do what has to be done. No matter how I do it. Time and again I’ve gotten through, my body a wreck, my head pounding.
I made it through school as a returning student. I’ve faced down my fear of flying when it was necessary. I’ve battled doctors and gotten a second chance at life when they said I couldn’t. Actually, that was the second time. The first was when I was born and they gave me less than twenty-four hours to live.
When I accomplish tasks it’s always alone and with a lot of tears, but I get it done. I’m the last person anyone would think to bet on. I’m also not someone you’d want to bet against. This time will be no different.