One of my favourite words.
It’s only 12:30, and I’ve already worked for three-ish hours with only two short breaks, one to buy coffee, one for a five-minute existential crisis. Not impressive in regular-person terms, but this is, for me, real progress. My pattern in recent months has been to take what I can get, an hour here, thirty minutes there, scrambling to piece together some semblance of a respectable work day. It feels good to sit down and get stuff done without having to find gaps in the smothering fog of epilepsy-depression-anxiety. Not that it’s disappeared. Rather, to use another crappy weather metaphor, it’s been downgraded from a debilitating, let’s-make-every-minor-task-take-four-times-as-long-as-it-should tempest of an obstacle to an annoying yet manageable cloud hanging over my head. A nebulous sense of apprehension, not immediate panic (I’m on a roll, I know). So while I’m still motivated to analyze horribly written 1950s journal articles, I’d better seize this welcome moment of clarity and get back to it.
(And yes, I’ll acknowledge that the seizure pun was a bit of a groaner. Don’t judge.)