It's taken me close to three years to emerge from the worst depression of a life deeply entrenched in trauma and mental illness. I have not slept properly since 2019. My eating habits are a bad joke told to a diabolical audience. I've experienced fatigue so extraordinary that I wondered if I had MS, or covid, or some weird advanced aging disorder. Or if I was going to just be that person who had to go back to bed every two or three hours just to get through a day of very, very minimal activity. Anytime I've had a day of average function where I could get three different errands or chores done, I'd worry that I was manic.
Since a couple of days after election day, I have begun to sleep like a normal human being. Last night I got a good eight hours, rose before the sun this morning and had coffee with my nice little dog; did laundry, some cooking, walked the dog twice (he wouldn't poop the first time), knocked out some more crochet work, turned on the radio and listened to the actual news instead of paranormal podcasts or 19th century science fiction audiobooks; had a healthy breakfast, loaded the dishwasher and started it... I know there's more, but I've been too busy to really think about the list.
I whistled. I prayed for Joe and Kamala. I expect that will be a more or less daily effort. I turned off the news when I needed a break, but only to step away and process information, not because what I was hearing threatened to plunge me deeper into the present-day trauma that was our government for the past four years. I know I'll turn it on again today.
"I know I'm being noisy," I called to my husband as the potatoes I was prepping spilled and a cabinet door banged. "But it's a good noisy."
"It's amazing," I said later, pitching those funky bath mats down what I fondly refer to as the laundry shoot (the basement steps), "what a new president can do for a girl."
