Long Cold Spring

Long cold spring May 4, 2011
It has been a long cold spring. Today it is raining and the temperature in the house has not gone above 60. Once again I sit at my desk with turtleneck, sweatshirt and alpaca scarf wound around my neck. My hand cups my steel mug that acts more like a hot-water bottle than a beverage container. There is no more wood in the basement and I refuse to turn on the oil furnace for my sake. I am cold.
I pay the bills that need to be paid, balance the checkbook, search for jobs and prepare for tomorrow’s interview. I avoid the phone when it rings, letting the answering machine pick up and do not return phone calls.
This is depression I know. And I am back to not writing my book. The book came in a few long bursts of energy, then floundered there unshaped without progressing past age 13. It has no organizing principle except for chronology. Will it appeal to anyone but me or those who know me? Is it enough? Am I?
I finally bring myself to change into sneakers to get on the treadmill. After a half hour, my hands are warm for the first time all day. I contemplate making dinner. And having this assignment, I write.