The years of unemployment shook my faith in myself. I got lots of support on my blog but I was also attacked. If you choose to write in public you need to be able to process stuff like that.
I lost a few friends. To some extent I have processed all of it. In other ways I might might never let the hurt go.
I'm sad. And I'm embarrassed to be sad. Sadness feels like failure.
There are reasons. Sadness seems a normal thing to feel all things considered. But I haven't wanted to talk about it.
Sadness is difficult for people, especially when they care about you. And the myriad ways in which people deal with those feelings are all understandable.
But. I can't process my own sadness and other people's need for me to not be sad. So I am withdrawn.
The problem is that I am cut off from my inner world.
I heard Parker Palmer talk abut his own depression. He used the phrase: the tragic gap.

"The tragic gap is the gap between what's really going on around us, the hard conditions in which our lives are currently immersed, and what we know to be possible from our own experience"

He goes on to describe flips between hyper-cynicism and hyper-idealism with such elegance. I listen to the interview again and again trying to ground myself in the wisdom. But wisdom ... wisdom doesn't always help.

So I had a weepy weekend but I got a few chores done. I'm not really ready for Monday. Ready or not. Here we go.

Three posts in one day. Is it a trend? I dunno. Doubt it.
Plants are watered. Back room is still a mess. Apartment is generally cleaned up. Paperwork done. What can be packed for lunch has been packed. Swim bag is packed. It's as good as it's gonna get and it's good enough.
Posts for the rest of the week could all read like this.
Woke up.
Ate cereal.
Went swimming ( Monday, Wednesday and Friday)
Got the bus to the train and the train to the shuttle.
worked.
Got the shuttle to the train and the train to the bus.
Checked email Spaced out on Facebook.
Went to bed.
There might be complaining about the commute or love for the pool. But. It's just a push to get through it all. I never have anything left.

Interesting. I spent more than an hour updating my blog roll in a failed attempt to make it more manageable. And that was without much reading. I deleted blogs that don't seem to be on anymore. And some that I liked but knew I might not read regularly. It was surprisingly emotional. I was flooded with memory.
I can barely imagine getting it together to write anymore. Even with a reduced blog roll I don't have an hour an hour a day to read.
And it's more than time. It's about how I experience reading and writing. I try not to be overly precious but I feel. A lot. Of everything. About everything.
I made a new friend last year. We're on the same bus/train combo. The other day she talked to me about not liking blogs. She didn't understand why anyone would want to write about their lives on line and she didn't understand understand why anyone would want to read about them. She didn't trust it. It felt superficial. Her arguments were compelling. I have sometimes been put off by things that people write. And I wrote some really dopey stuff in my time. Personal blogging is fraught. Better to be a pundit, I suppose.
But I have met some amazing people and I love reading about their lives.
There are things I need to be doing. I'm trying to decide what needs to be done (water the plants, pack stuff for lunches, clean up) and stuff I want to be do (clean the back room, clean up a lot). I might just bag it all and take a nap.

Last week was difficult. No matter how hard I work I never feel like it's enough. I leave work emotionally, physically and mentally drained most of the time.
So. I do not write.
Facebook sometimes feels like blogging. And lately I've been connecting with old friends there. They find me or I find them. Something about that has made me want to communicate. I just rarely feel like I have much to say.
Something is shifting. Not sure what.