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Still.

That’s the word that caught my attention.

Still.  My mind has been still for months, thanks to Prozac and changing the way I think.  I don’t feel a need to be perfect all the time.  (There’s a time and place for it, along with everything else.)  But something has set my mind off lately.  I’ve been creative.  I’ve written a scene for a fiction piece.  I’m experimenting with writing a script.  I’ve volunteered to be an extra in a play.  I’m joining conversations.

Maybe I’ve been still too long and it’s time to move.  A brain can’t be quiet forever.

Maybe I’m gaining faith in myself.  About damn time.

Before I was diagnosed with depression my mind would spin like Dorothy’s twister.  Touching this or that subject, but I couldn’t decide on any of them.  Research?  Writing?  Cooking?  Making a new dress for my daughter?  I wanted to do all at once, but wasn’t still enough to do anything.

But sometimes when I’m still I can ignore things.  Subjects show up, sit in an easy chair across from me and say “Well, I’m here!”  I have to force myself to look at them.  Answer their questions.  Even putting myself under the microscope requires me to be still.  Some subjects still hurt–like the Dark Ages of our marriage–and probably always will.  Like a break that never heals right.  Maybe it’s better than removing that limb?

I like having a still mind.  At least it’s not in constant turmoil.

 

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