I am going to write. Or try to. But now I sit in front of my laptop and all those brilliant ideas I had this morning--easily the content of three blog posts--has vaporized and all I can think of is refilling the seltzer bottles and wiping the kitchen table. Thrilling, I tell you. The stuff of dramatic literature.
I could be tackling the mountain of paperwork from my job--I have failed to figure out how to squeeze 10 hours of work into an eight-hour day--but it is after 11 pm and if I had any sense at all, I would wander upstairs, brush my teeth, and read a magazine for a few minutes.
I could list my pet peeves--I have a whole menagerie of them--but no one wants to read my bitching and moaning, and I know I could not do the whole litany of them justice in my current state of fatigue.
I could talk about what I miss from my life (a humane workday; peace of mind; the time and support to write, especially from a writer's group; the chance to do something meaningful in the onco world). But at the moment their absence leaves me sad and knowing something needs to change. I crave the change but also avoid the prep work that I know will be involved. Frustrated. And sad. I can deny what I need only so long.