Bleak Mid(late)winter

I woke up this morning to cloudy skies.  Not the interesting kind–ominous dark clouds piling up on the horizon like a threat–just the flat, blank sky of winter.  The world is grey and brown and cold.

Then I did a stupid thing.  I’m waiting to hear back about a short story I submitted; the official notification date is next Monday, but I snuck a peek at the online status tracker.  Complete, it says.

They’ve finished reading it, but they’re not going to publish it.  Damn.

I had such high hopes for that story; I enjoyed writing it so much.  For almost a week, it was like I was channeling a real, live little old lady named Cleo.  I love her.  I want to see her in print.  She took form on my computer screen, and then I spent weeks tweaking her voice, shaping her story.  My writer’s group, bless their collective heart, pointed out her holes and shortcomings, and talked me through the hard work of making her better.  I sent her out into the world, to my dream literary journal, with a mother’s pride and trepidation.

I should’ve waited till Monday to get my hopes crushed.  I’ve fallen into a pit of despair and have no tricks left for hauling myself out.  It’s 32 degrees as I write this; I just can’t bear the thought of stepping out into that cold to go for a run.

Dieting absolutely sucks–for some reason, the perpetual low-level hunger is making me much grumpier than it ever has before.  I don’t feel like I can retreat to the kitchen and make a slab of brownies to make myself feel better (I might be able to live with the guilt for myself, but I really, really don’t want to sabotage Lee and Delaney).  I can’t put on a cute outfit and go out to do something fun with a girlfriend, because that would involve–food.

I don’t want to turn the radio on because the news is depressing.  I’m avoiding entire rooms in our house because the mess (not one but TWO bicycles in the living room) is overwhelming.  At the same time, I can’t bring myself to leave the house, because I know that cold air will sink right into my bones.

I’m feeling trapped and depressed, a useless failure.  Most of the time I can ignore that bottomless black hole of existential angst, but at this time of year?   The chasm opens up a bit more every day, threatening to suck me in.  I try to look the other way, turn my back on it and whistle past the graveyard.

But today I’m staring down into it, teetering on the edge.