Fighting the Black Hand

I am sitting here at this machine, working up the courage and the energy to fight the black hand, which has been closing in on me for the last three days. There are signs all around me that the hand is winning: dishes stacked on the counter, the unmade bed, heaps of 'stuff' on the chairs, the table, my recliner covered in dirty socks, shirts, things left where they were removed.

This is far from my Navy training, and far from where I am happiest, a clean and orderly house. But then, the Black Hand is not something I choose to have come over me.

Winston Churchill called it his black dog, and he fought with it all his life. It was a deep depression that took him for weeks at a time, and caused him to sink into great despair. He battled it with constant drink, and smoke, and even spending great sums of money he didn't have, although he always seemed to get by.

I haven't always had this Black Hand, but it has taken me lately, and it does send me into despair. I quit caring, as it were, and just sit, all of a lump, and let time slip by me.

Also, I cannot sleep during these times when the Hand takes over my life. So I stare out at the world with no hope, exhausted, in the building trash around me, falling deeper and deeper.

Then I finally fight back. The only way I can fight the blackness is with light: I open all the blinds, let the light into the house, run all the ceiling fans to stir the air, and start cleaning! If I can clean just one room, then I can go there when I need hope again, and then back into the house to clean more, then finally the laundry, and all is done.

I find that once the wash is finished, the house straightened, and my things put away, then I can sleep, or at least I can try.

I see the sun peeking through the blinds; time to face the Hand.

MMG