Dear Diary

I find myself some mornings, early, lying in bed thinking of death. I mean, that's natural at my age, right? I checked with others of similar elderhood. Yeah, normal they tell me. But, warning, no prolonged inhabiting of that space.

I find it hard to slice the time correctly as it can get into morose territory. The "why bothers", the Black Dog scenario.

I was in a terrible state of sadness for the past week. Overwhelmed so much I had to call and cancel an appearance to give an after dinner talk on How Wonderful My life Is in Spite of Challenges.

I couldn't catch a glimpse of any wonderfuls anywhere and the challenges were resonating non-stop tied up with unrelenting awful memories.

A medication I'm on impacts my movements terribly which adds to my misery. And my doctors are dismissive. And out here on the Edge? Shopping doctors is not a possibility. I'm on this med as a result of my accident and additional family stressors. Walking and race preparation could alleviate this physical handicap to a huge degree but this is insurmountable at the moment. My podiatrist recommended a holistic doctor he knows who may be able to get me off this pharma-treadmill. I've been warned I can have a stroke if I wean myself.

Lately, returning phone calls and emails was the equivalent of climbing a tough mountain. But today? I started and the sadness still shrouds me but I am sharing it with loved ones.

In the midst of writing this, a dear friend dropped by as he was concerned about my invisibility, he had a "feeling." I love that. When a friend senses you are not up to snuff.

I filled him in.

What was clear, suddenly, is that when I am down and sad and don't want to inflict myself on anyone is that those are the exact times I should.

I must write that on my wall.