It seems I just don't know where to begin. It's not as if I never think to write to you, au contraire.

Why just last night I composed a most heartfelt post that exposed my inner sanctum as it has never been exposed here before--- of course, that was as I lay in bed with moonlight doing its best to make sure I got as little sleep as possible.

Naturally, as I didn't drag myself in here to scribble it all down (trust me, it wasn't worth it)-- it's all gone to the ether now. All I can remember is that it began, "back in 1993, I was newly married, unemployed and, from all appearances, profoundly depressed as upon waking each morning I would get up from bed, drink a coffee, spend about 20 minutes trying to write before I shut off the computer due to the blinding dust storm of doubt and self-loathing that inevitably engulfed me, and climb onto the living room sofa where I would remain for the rest of the day."

Good times.

Although I have no idea where I went with that particular thread, I do know what would prompt me to reflect back on that specific phase in my life right now: I'm living a full 180 degrees away from that place.

Precisely 180 degrees.

And it's weird. Part of me still thinks of myself as that person. And yet.

What was I doing as I lay supine on the sofa one arm behind my head, eyes fixed on the ceiling? Daydreaming. For hours upon hours upon hours. I never watched television. I never read. There was the occasional phone call, but by and large-- I lay on my back and stared through the white plaster overhead.

There was a time I would no more admit to this than vote for George Bush. Even though I rationalized it completely at the time: hey! I'm not watching tv, not getting drunk, not killing anybody, not trying to coerce people into following my religion, not working a job I hate just because I'm too scared not to . . the list goes on. I most definitely rationalized my behavior-- to myself. As you can be damn sure I was up and buzzing about the kitchen when my husband got home from work each day. And you know full well that when people called and asked me how the writing was going I had easy answers that made it seem plausible that I was actually doing something all day besides conjuring up worlds in my head.

In fact, you are the first person I've ever told.

And I'm going to sit here for a minute and see how that feels.

Hmm. Oddly, I don't care. Though I can see how this admission might totally repulse you and that I should feel profound shame-- I just don't. I should have far-reaching remorse, but I don't. I was 30 years old and I was completely and utterly adrift.

At the time, I thought I was doomed. We were broke and I was laying around all day. And by all day I don't mean to suggest for a week or ten days-- I mean for months and months, perhaps years. I don't honestly remember.

And here's where it breaks because this post is already too long. All I wanted to say was, I see things so differently now (now that I am living a life filled to overflowing with the qualities I once imagined as fantasy). I look back at that lost woman and I see her in a kind of cocoon. I would say incubator, but wherever she was, deep change occurred and I don't know that incubators foster change as much as growth. Although I was rarely actually sleeping as I lay there on the sofa-- I see that whole phase as a deep sleep. Like Rip Van Winkle. Like a hibernating black bear. Like -- okay, I'll shut up now.

I've woken up. Everything has changed. I am old, but I'm happy.

Wait, isn't that a Cat Stevens song?

And hey! T just came home (btw, the painting in the photo above? --one of his) and guess what?

I am now officially RSS FEEDIZED!

Check it out-- right under the SAW logo.

Holy hell-- what does this portend?

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