I wasn’t doing great last week. Sometimes that happens. Sometimes my brain isn’t so much trying to kill me as it is trying to make me just not exist, or turn that existence into moving through an empty fog, where even getting up and doing anything seems to take monumental effort.
That the House voted to begin a process that could strip away my ability to purchase health insurance didn’t help matters very much. Because the very things I need that insurance for the most — Mental Health, Generally Being A Woman, Etc. — will qualify as pre-existing conditions that could mean I either get denied coverage outright or what coverage I can buy is priced so high I can’t afford it.
It makes me glad I never sought medical help for Certain Things, though I could have done so under the ACA, I could have afforded that care, but I am thankful now that those things aren’t on my medical records to damn me.
But let’s not talk about that. I took the weekend for Self Care. It was my birthday, and we went to see Guardians of the Galaxy: Volume 2, spent a good bit of time in a bookstore, and went home to have one of my favorite meals, then Sunday I spent mostly resting (some of it enforced by a broken lawnmower, I *had* initially had plans to get up and do at least one productive thing).
I did manage to write a good bit last week. Breathing Whisky is a universe that just will not let me go, and I’ve been trying to find the right first plot to fit into it for years now. I think I’ve finally found it. I don’t like to talk too much about works-in-progress (it tends to be a good way to ensure I lose all desire to actually write it), but I’m writing, and it’s going well, and maybe, just maybe I’ve found the right case for my detective. She’s only one of three protagonists I’ve played with in this universe, but the one that is perhaps closest to my heart, so I’ve been looking for the right use for her since the idea first came to me years ago.
It’s good that even as spoonless as I was last week, I still managed to write a bit, because when nothing else works the writing can always pull me out. I’m not entirely ok, I don’t know that I’m ever entirely ok, but I’m better than I was, less stuck in the fog than I was, and I’m writing. Always writing.