It’s not that I did something terrible. No, I didn’t steal the loose change from under your sofa cushions. And no, I’m not wearing your underwear. I may be a little bit peculiar in some ways, but not in either of those ways. So for what, then, do I owe you an explanation?
I haven’t been blogging much lately. And I feel bad about that sometimes. I don’t want to sound ungrateful in any way or uncaring toward you, dear readers. Because I do feel a great deal of gratitude toward all of you who take valuable time from your day to read what I create here. That’s what I hope, what I want to try, to explain. You see, in a peculiar way (okay, this is one of the ways I’m peculiar), recently I haven’t always felt the drive, the personal sense of obligation that would tend to keep me posting frequently on these pages — for my own benefit, for my own sense of satisfaction, for that desire to entertain or enlighten in my own small way — sometimes that thing inside me is missing. Sometimes I don’t care that much. And I should. –Wait a minute, should isn’t a good word. Should can imply or seem to impose guilt, and guilt is not really something I can make good use of. My writing and blogging, or lack thereof, is what it is. No shoulds are necessary.
Now I’m not certain, but I think all this has to do with my depression. I’ve mentioned depression before in these pages, such as in this post. I don’t want to sound like I’m using the “D” word as an excuse or as a shield of some kind. It is what it is, whatever it is, and it didn’t used to be this way with me. Sure, like anybody else, I used to procrastinate (and still do), make excuses, be lazy, do other things that seemed more interesting at the moment, rather than do the thing I felt some obligation to do. But before depression really hit me hard about five years ago, I don’t remember ever feeling such a lack of caring about some things as I do now, sometimes.
That last word is an important point, I think. Sometimes. Sometimes I do care. Sometimes I care a lot. If I hadn’t cared, I never would have started this blog. I never would have started rewriting an old novel. I wouldn’t be doing a lot of things now that occupy my time in productive ways and that I enjoy. It’s just that sometimes, without discernible logic, I stop caring for a while. . . . And then . . . it comes back. Sooner or later. It always comes back, eventually. At least it has so far.
I also think it’s worth mentioning that the caring I have for other people beyond myself never seems to diminish in any significant way, except under rare and pretty dire circumstances. Even if I’m really down, I still tend to be nice and polite to people (unless they’ve just treated me badly, in which case I may choose not to expend my limited positive energy on them). I still love my loved ones, and don’t want to see them hurt. Since I don’t always extend the same kindness toward myself during these lower moods, this caring for others has helped keep me out of trouble on many occasions.
So there you go. A somewhat hard to explain, less than pithy explanation. Sorry I can’t do any better at the moment. Hey, at least I’ve written something today (actually it’s now taken me about five days to write, edit, and post this — perhaps this fact helps illustrate my difficulty).
Now, for a change of pace, and because I feel like topping this off with a little humor, here are a few pictures of things reminding me what I am NOT going to use as excuses for not blogging as frequently lately.
Note: No animals were harmed during the production of this blog post.