Hiatus

A spot check, a broken toe and a very dark place have sent me into exile, but I am making a triumphant return.

I say this today, but who know what tomorrow will bring.

So here's the story of a freckle, and how I lost a pound of flesh:
I've always had an oval, fawn-colored freckle on my right side, and in recent months, the edges started to turn the color of dark chocolate, and grow. After 33-years, it decided to build an addition. Having the same coloring as Casper the Friendly Ghost, and having a propensity to burn when spending longer than 10 seconds in the sun without sunscreen, my freckle and I went to the doctor. The nurse practitioner examined it, and said it was indeed questionable, but said she could remove it in the office, lickity split.

More like carved out of my side. When it was all said and done, I had three stitches in an area that was three times the size of the original freckle. And it was hardly a surface wound -- she bore deep into my side and it ached for days. not to mention it was located right on my fat roll, so every time I sat or bent over, the ends of the stitches would stab me in the stomach.

And have I mentioned I am apparently allergic to Band-Aid glue? That was an added, blistering bonus to the whole experience!

The end result revealed that it was three freckles that have been with me since birth, two of which decided to emerge in the spot that was occupied by the first oval freckle. Freckles do not share well.

My recovery from that was short-lived.

It was a dark and stormy night . . . .and I had to pee. So I get out of bed, leave my glasses on the nightstand, and walk head into the master bathroom. Somehow -- whether it was me, or the cat -- the closet door was open and I walked my right pinkie-toe full speed into it, and there was pain like none other that I can remember. The room got bright, them dimmed, and my toe was instantly black. It is several weeks later and it still hurts, and really does not do well when confined. However, it is no longer black.

Now comes the dark place. I have been treated for depression for about five years, and most of the time, life it is good. However, there are times, and I can't explain what brings them on, when I go to a dark, hopeless place where all of my efforts -- be they professional or personal -- are futile to bring me out of it. It's the place where all my faults are front and center, where I can't possibly imagine anything good becoming of my life or succeeding in anything. And all I want to do is seal myself off and sleep all day. That's the worst part -- not being able to stand myself, and being so damn tired all the time. We're talking narcoleptic kind of tired, and the superhuman effort it takes to put one foot in front of the other.

But I am trudging onward. . . . . .