I have been reading, though not as much as I'd like to, and have done no writing whatsoever.

It's 1:00 am and my knee hurts- I don't know why- and I only want to go to bed. The rehearsal schedule needs to be planned, the reading for kids on Wednesday, the sysiphistic pile of laundry haunts me (it never goes away nor shrinks) and I have poems in my head that skitter behind my eyes when I do finally lay down my head, and I listen intently for any sound on the porch that might indicate the neighborhood freak is getting it on (on my storm door).

Mostly I want to stay home and not go to work. Part of me has stuff to do- but there is this fear I am returning to the almost house-bound state I was in about 15 years ago- At that time, I had only a few places I could go- the school, the church (and I worked at both those places), one particular grocery store, and that was about it. If I was accompanied by someone else, I might, might, be able to go someplace new.

I had some anxiety attacks that I kept secret- though I thought I was dying- an hardly anyone knew what I was going through.

Writing helped get me out of that- and counseling, and a few really good friends, one of whom had his own meltdown before I met him- he was a rock. And an angel- in the movie sense.

I really do want to quit my job, though- it doesn't pay enough for the time and energy it takes- I'm kind of waiting for the next thing to present itself- I want to go to the summer workshop at WVU in fiction instead of poetry this summer, so I need to work on some ideas.