Now, where were we?
Yes, it’s me again. The scribbler who had been anchored here for more than a decade–but has gone missing since June.
Here, in brief, is what happened: Call it the ultimate perfect storm. Imagine intimations of mortality when you are no longer a sexagenarian. Then add a paranoia-inducing pandemic. Then toss in the era of Trump and the most harmful and hateful politics in memory. Then having to write about it.
That gets you to levels of anxiety and anger and depression that are at odds with a sane, senior, democratic life.
That’s what I was confronted with early in my recent summer in Asheville, NC.
I’ll spare you most of the scary details, and they were scary, but it involved an overnight stay in an emergency room—that morphed into some down time in its psycho ward–at an HCA hospital. Nothing like a Rick Scott reminder when you are anxious, depressed, panicky, appetite-less, energy-challenged and light-headed. I kept thinking of “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” What would Jack Nicholson say?
Well, after nearly six months, here’s what I’m saying—and we’ll see how it goes from here with therapy, med changes, very little TV and its visceral optics and some alterations in writing and scheduling. Please stay tuned, thank you for your readership and have a great holiday season.