Partway through a year of joy and rebuilding

I posted early in the year about feeling as though I was coming back to life, recovering myself again. I was perhaps premature in that assessment. I went through a lot of ups and down, bouts of writing fiercely and bouts of staring into space and wondering if it was even worth the effort. Yet I was writing, and even started a new project. I had a regular yoga practice again. I felt less than my best, but not my worst either. Drive came out on February 9 to good reviews and I started to believe again that maybe the struggle and financial challenges of writing were worthwhile.

On February 26, Samhain, the publisher of Drive and the wonderful folks I’ve been working with since 2009, announced it would no longer accept new titles and was gradually shutting down.

I’m sure even Samhain authors who’d been in perfectly good health before this news were thrown for a loop. Considering I was just getting out of a slump, the resulting panic and paralysis weren’t pretty.

In one way, this terrible news was good for me. It was the final push that got me to get medical help for the ongoing depression and anxiety. Nothing says, “OK, it’s time, damn it” like having an external reason to be depressed and anxious on top of being that way because of screwed-up brain chemistry.

And it was screwed-up brain chemistry, because a mild medication started helping almost immediately. Who knew? With a stroke of good fortune, I found a therapist–chosen more or less at random because her office was in walking distance–who specializes in holistic, mind/body techniques. She actually prescribed meditation and a regular yoga practice, as well as time outside. It’s like she knows me or something.

Me on Ogunquit Beach in Maine, April 2016

So what’s different? I’m now close to my old insane energy level. (The therapist has been trying to teach me to take it easy. I’ve had to explain that one of my goals is to be a workaholic and enjoy it again instead of working too hard on the wrong things, not getting anywhere because I can’t get out of my own way to actually create, and feeling miserable as a result.) I’m waking up in the morning full of ideas and going to bed full of a different, naughty sort of energy. I have so many books in my head that the only problem is deciding which ones to start after I finish Buck, Naked, the next Chronicles of the Malcolm book. (I’ll be indie pubbing it. I’m terrified and overwhelmed by all the new stuff I need to learn, but I’m able to see past the fear to possibilities.) And I’m finding fierce joy in all sorts of things. I think I went most of last year without feeling that kind of random joy, but now it seems to happen all the time. Flavors. Textures. Light. Scents. The play of words. For instance, in the middle of writing this post, I ran outside to photograph the sky at dusk (sadly it didn’t come out well) and stood there enthralled by the sky, the birdsong, the green scent of spring air. We vacationed in Maine in April–that’s where I took the pictures above. Not the best time to go to Maine, you’d think, but the wild waves sang to me, the woods were full of awakening life, the cold-water lobster was exquisite, and my husband and I found magic everywhere.

Including in each other. Let’s just say it was a nice hotel room, shall we?

I’m not the only member of the family who’s shed some issues. Tinkerbelle the cat has also taken enormous strides. When we adopted her, she was so timid and so bullied by our other cats, especially Xia, I thought several times of trying to rehome her, perhaps to some quiet older people with no other pets. Recently, though, she’s gone from being the basement cat to being a lap and desk cat who’ll sometimes instigate a ruckus with Xia instead of letting herself be pushed around. I’m so proud of my little black and white girl! Maybe she’s been sneaking some of my meds when I was busy writing.

Here’s Tinkerbelle in her desk cat role. Holding down all that paper is an important job! She “edits” for me too.