Friday, February 1, 2019


I went on the community dog walk this morning. Then I came home and Darrell was dropping off the second “coffin”—actually a 12’ X 3.5’ raised bed. He’s building a total of four, so I ordered three Cedar planters for my Apple trees.
After Darrell left, I added the chemicals to the hot tub and I could see it working almost immediately. This afternoon I’ll add one final chemical and then drain it.
My life is not rich enough for the writer within.
Ideally, I’d write two-to-three thousand words between 5:00 am and 9:00 am but my life is so dreary dull, I have nothing to write about. Island life pretty much happens indoors in Winter and my four-legged family and I live a life of routines. 
The veggie garden will inspire some prose.
Last week I was in a fluent conversation about visiting Vancouver and I said, “On that date, there are no flights available.” And the person I was talking to said: “Why don’t you take the ferry?” And I immediately started stuttering terribly for about a minute.
Last night I was talking fluently to Dwight and he asked me: “What about coming to Vancouver?” And the same thing happened.
I feel fine, but my brain shuts me down at the mere mention of certain triggers. I’ve long known that Vancouver and ferries (and many other things) trigger me, but the immediacy of the collapse at the mere mention of a word is really shocking—and inconvenient and embarrassing. 
But as I often say: I’m an optimist. I got the “good” kind of mental illness. I got one that does not cause me to hurt others and one that is reasonable to bear.

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