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It’s the end of day 7.
This time last week I was voluntarily getting hit by the chemical equivalent of a baseball bat to the inner ear and brain to try and get some of my old life back, and, after a day or two of delayed side effects, did what any batter who gets hit would do. I took the walk.
Now, at the end of day 7, I’m slowly crawling to first base. The fog is starting to clear bit by bit.
I’m heading back to work tomorrow, regardless of the wisdom of that idea. I’ll be sitting on first, waiting for the signal to start running again, but, after the cathartic weekend of painting that preceded the bat to the ear, I know exactly how it will feel.
It won’t be a feverish productivity or blur of activity. It will be when the need to pick up the brush cuts through the spinning fog. It won’t feel like guilt for having neglected work or art. It will feel like a lifeline pulling me in.