The returning reader is probably an increasingly rare breed in this particular little corner of the blogosphere. In fact, in years past I railed against my adoption of the term blog because mine bore no such relevance. 'It's a diary!', she opined, before suddenly closing the door on it forever. And now with the hoary old tale of not having enough time, or enough inspiration, or enough worldly nous, or more likely, enough enthusiasm to sit and write something, goodness knows I'm trying to do exactly that again.
Where did the hell did my enthusiasm go? What happened to the collective who actually tuned in once a month to stay the challenge of a thousand, perhaps ten thousand, words? I guess most of them had better things to do, and besides, no-one sits around a bonfire that's reduced itself to smouldering embers in order to get warm. I suspect this place needs the proverbial slosh of paraffin. I recently came across the notion of ego depletion, in the context of Why You're Not Getting On At Work, How You Can Boost Your Productivity, and How Not To Get Fired, or some such headline worthy of Yahoo! news. I haven't wrapped my head around the whole psyche of the depleted individual, except that important decision making takes energy, and the more you do it the more you'll need to recharge at some point. That some individuals will succumb to the easiest route—the least difficult option, which is probably to avoid making any sort of decision at all—is inevitable. There is a school of thought which says that a certain amount of giving in is in fact helpful towards not giving in the rest of the time. However, for those the individuals who have found themselves thoroughly depleted, how do they recharge? And what made them susceptible in the first place?
I'm reminded of the analysis that separates people into extroverts and introverts, and by extension illustrates how those people tick when amongst company and when alone. Are the opportunities to recharge themselves more difficult to come by these days for the introverts? Once it was a magical electrical snake of a thing called the telegraph, then the telephone, then the television, and now you can choose from a hundred social networks that push stuff relentlessly into your computer, your phone, into your eyeballs. We live in hyper-connected times with no off switch. Well, there is, but press it and the rest of the world won't wait for you. One case might be the office-based introverts (with lots of people) who need the quiet of being alone (without lots of people) but get lonely doing so and so seek out social circles, as long as they're not too social. But because they prefer to be alone they don't feel driven—indeed, capable—to contribute as much as the more extrovert, and as a result they feel awkward about not fitting in, so they practice not fitting in. I suspect the truth is closer to the introverted individuals and extroverted individuals each wishing they could be more like the other.
Decision making paralysis? Possibly. I may have had a lot on my mind. Try finding a lump next to your breast.
It comes when you least expect it, quite honestly. Suffice to say, I now have some quite big and rather red scars that weren't there two months ago, and spending several nights massively propped up in bed on cushions and pillows is ridiculously uncomfortable, and not terribly conducive to one's beauty sleep. In the last four months I've had so many blood tests that I've lost count, and I think I must have been tested for every medical condition ever discovered, including anaemia (which as an athletic sort of girl I was pleased to find I don't have, though that means my inability to climb on Friday afternoons must be dietary instead). The CT radiographer of course wouldn't even rule out my being pregnant. I really don't think I am, and I said as much to her. Actually the conversation may have involved a few more specifics than that. Mind you, the chance would be a fine thing. The Shoogly Peg definitely is, though, which is just fab.