I have sat here for an hour this morning, head in my hands like the Stormtrooper in the "Regret" poster, attempting to get my brain to fire up. It is slow going today, I must admit. No witty observations, no heartfelt revelations. Just sitting here staring at the wall, noting where I need to do some touch-up painting.
It is kinda strange, really. I am currently busier than ever. Blogging fills (most of) my mornings, doing some work out on MTurk is generating some Amazon credit for us, I've even discovered a "piece writing" site (Text Broker) that will actually pay real, live money for small articles. I have plenty to do. Today I just can't seem to get myself moving in order to do those things.
It is easy enough to blame my second day of caffeine withdrawal. But I am beginning to think that the real problem is choices: all of the sudden I have some options, and I am having trouble choosing between them. I am not really used to the concept. For years, my days consisted of getting up, gaming while hoping I didn't have seizures that day, going back to bed. Now, suddenly, there are options: Do I write a post? Do I go exercise? Do I get online and work for a little while? All this while feeling that my brain is turned off still.
In many ways, it feels very similar to the years when I was suffering from serious depression - then, I would see the things that I could be doing, but didn't care enough to do them. What would be the point? Now, it is almost a paralysis, like a child in a candy store, overwhelmed by too many options. My heart knows that I would be better off choosing something, but my mind can't seem to make that connection.
Six months ago, if you have told me I would be overwhelmed with options today, I would have laughed at you. My obesity and my epilepsy between them create a very firm anchor, fixing me in a very small space - a room with windows, but no doors. Today, I am still obese. I am still epileptic. But today, unlike 6 months ago, I have hope - hope that by this time next year weight-loss surgery may actually allow me to be taking my first, tentative steps again through life, instead of merely doing laps inside the walls of my twin disabilities. And no one ever warned me that hope is a paralyzing agent.
My hands are warmed up now, the blood seems to be flowing to the brain again. Out there is Real Life, streaming by outside my window like a busy freeway. Within these walls there are things I can be doing to prepare myself for the possibility that I might someday rejoin that flow. I guess I better get to it.
Daring to Hope,