To anyone who doesn’t know her well this would seem like depression. She seems to lack motivation, having to force herself to do her basic household chores. The days grow longer and the sun has some warmth in it, but that warmth does not reach into the aching joints of her hands.
It is March; she sits idly gazing out at the bright day knowing it’s all a lie. “No Mister March, I know you all too well. Far too often over the years I have fallen for your lies, but not this time.” The Ides of March? No, the lies of March. March dangles a bright sunny day before her eyes, but she doesn’t buy it.
In the past she would have, cheerfully leashing the dogs, grabbing a light coat, and heading for the hills only to be caught in a sudden snow squall and spending a week coughing and sneezing for her trouble. No, she will wait for April, or perhaps even May before putting away the wool sweaters.
Still, the dying winter sits heavily on her shoulders, her bed unmade, her dishes unwashed, and her blog post late; her knitting lying idly in her hands. Who is this poor tormented soul?
Why, it’s Prudence MacLeod. Depression? No, just Prudence between writing projects with too many voices in her head, too much time on her hands, and too many aches in her body that normally get ignored. March is always like this for me. Once I get fully focused on a new project it will all change.
In the meantime, rather than bitch and whine three times a week, I will only post here on Sundays and Thursdays.
So, see you next time folks; I promise to be more upbeat on Sunday.