I’m coming out of a hole. Digging up. While in one I never comprehend the walls and floor are dirt. That the light is low. That communication is muffled at best. There’s no love, no laughter. Numb to everything else, I bury myself in ancient reruns and audio books and the rest of the world, myself included, is shut out.
It’s not until I stick my nose above the dirt that I recognize there is a world and it’s alight with living. Because whatever I was doing was not living.
Don’t think I’m bi-polar, since this didn’t start until sometime around or after age 55. Some holes are very bad and I can’t find my way out for a month or more. Others are short, as I believe this to be. How would I know, really, since there are no timepieces in holes. I almost wrote hell. Don’t know when I dig in or how long I languish therein.
Luckily, this wasn’t a sinkhole.
I bought paint. And new drapes. Clawing my way out, one purchase at a time. I buy, therefore I am.