Periodic

I’ve been sick, on and off, for what feels like a very long time. Probably the better part of a month. I was having coughing fits where I couldn’t catch my breath, my eyes would tear up, and I’d feel like I was on the verge of throwing up. Somewhere around a week ago, I had a coughing fit that was so violent that I bruised my ribs. And then it happened again a few days later. Thankfully, now, the cough is abating, but my ribs are still complaining about 98% of the time (despite my religious ministrations of ibuprofen and paracetamol).

I’ve also, I think, been avoiding writing. Getting caught up in how self-indulgent I’ve been. Worried that someone might read what I’ve written and think, wow, how self-involved, or worse, get so fed up or disinterested that they gave up reading altogether. It’s a particular kind of self-pity to be disappointed in the rejection of an audience that doesn’t exist, that you’ve proclaimed to yourself that you don’t care about, that that’s not the point.

All that to say, it’s been a while. And when you stay away a while, it can take a bit of effort to get back to things. But here I am, getting back to things.

I’m not exactly sure what to write about, to be frank. I’m not sure if I should do more planning; if I do, I fear the result will be ignoring the plan and then abandoning all pretence of writing because I “didn’t do it right.” In other words, I’m not quite sure how to avoid setting myself up to fail. It’s just so easy.

But no. I will soldier on writing. I’ll eat a packet of biscuits and somehow use that as fodder for typing away. “my stomach hurt today,” I will say, and the cause will be a mystery to all except myself, and my husband, who bears witness to my crumby state. Because that’s what I am: mysterious. And full of crumbs.

My sweet child, who is also sick, is coughing again. Off we go.