Things have been feeling…different. Good different. G and I are back from our camping trip. Before we left, I wasn’t all that enthusiastic about it, which was a sign of the times. I wasn’t enthusiastic about anything. Thank goodness he was totally into doing all of the heavy lifting for the trip and was not at all put off by my lack of initiative. I knew intellectually at the time that this trip would be good for me, but I wasn’t feeling the love. Somehow I just knew that being out in the bush, miles and miles away from cell access or even a road, would be good for me. The idea of only having to focus on the basics — food, clothing, shelter — was very, very appealing.
We had to paddle for three hours to get to our site. There were a lot of peaceful silences. At moments I just lost myself in the rhythm of my stroke. As I got tired I just kept my eye on the horizon, and thought about how good it would feel to be on dry land again. That was about as complicated as my thoughts got. When we finally saw, through binoculars, a good site, my heart jumped a little blip of joy. I was ready to get out of that boat.
And when I did get out of the boat, I was quietly proud of myself. I had paddled 13 km, when I’d barely ever been in a kayak before.
The next few days were simply about making food, building fires, and exploring our lake. It was bliss.
I was happy to finally get home. A hot shower, a glass of wine on my porch, unloading the dishwasher, laundry galore. I caught myself doing this things not just with ease, but with a sense of contentment and satisfaction.
What changed? Who knows. Time passing, my self-induced drop in Seroquel dose perhaps. All I know is that I feel better and that’s what matters.