It’s hard to move forward right now. I think it might be the side effects of my new medication. Or it might be the weight of the past six months bearing down on me.
Bringing down to the kitchen the cup of tea that I made last night and didn’t drink because I was too tired…washing my hair with shampoo AND conditioner…concentrating on proofreading my book for more than a few minutes – takes all the effort in the world.
On a good day, I’m all go. On a good day, I have enough energy to light a city. On a good day, I can march from one goal to another without tripping once. But it’s been a while since I’ve had a day where it hasn’t felt like everything is just. too. much.
This afternoon, after another morning of feeling utterly done in, I decided I would go for a walk and pick blackberries. I’ve been feeling decidedly shit about my lack of exercise lately and made a vow to myself to start treating my body with the respect it deserves, even if it’s extremely fucking difficult at the moment.
The walk lasted about an hour. It felt like eight. But I collected a hefty load of brambles and felt reasonably content. Normally, I would have skipped home. On this occasion, putting one foot in front of the over was more than enough. When I arrived home, the idea of making a blackberry crumble suddenly didn’t seem so great. But I found a recipe and started.
Midway through when I was rubbing the butter into the flour and sugar, I was all about ready to abandon my crumble. It felt like I’d taken on too much. But my ma insisted I kept going. Grumbling under my breath, I finished the bastard crumble and hauled it into the oven with the last ounce of my strength.
Thirty-five minutes later, and out it came. I didn’t have particularly high hopes because, well…you know. But it turned out to be quite fucking delicious. The best crumble I’ve ever made, as a matter of fact. How this transpired I have no idea, but it was the pleasant surprise I needed today.
Celebrating the strange and the shadowy, the damned and unseen 