Dreams are good. My only refuge.
Obviously, Anne Frank wrote in her diary in awful circumstances and others have written in times of war. And worse–maybe done some of their finest work. Maybe they were younger or tougher than I am.
I used to believe I was tough.
This health stuff just goes on and on and on and I simply can’t focus on my work. And it’s ruining my health. And that just depresses me no end. I am able to work on the house some or garden and I’m lucky to do that.
But I can’t work on my novel with some health crisis happening every other day–I just get into being acclimated to it, and there’s some crisis. My father has them nearly weekly, sometimes a matter of days, and then my husband had some crazy virus with 103 fever and absolutely no muscle strength. After a lumbar puncture and two-day stay, we still don’t know what it was about though it seems to have resolved. No Covid or Flu though. Then my son has had a fever and congestion, covid negative so far and I have a headache and nose going.
Add to that these criminals leaking information from the Supreme Court, the evidence we have of them illegally stuffing ballot boxes (now on state and city video), and the made up lies and censorship, open borders, from what used to be a wonderful and free country, and I simply have no emotional reserves.
I did get a bit of comfort from Tucker Carlson’s advice to never care about the opinions of people who don’t care about you or your welfare (and that means caring about your human rights), and that allowed me to let go of a lot of pain.
Happy Tuesday, folks. It’s gloomy here and not very warm, but tomorrow seems to be the start of some nice spring days. Maybe my headache and congestion will lift at least. I hope you all are faring better than I am.