As I start writing this blog, it is 6pm on Sunday, 2 November, and it is dark outside. I hate this time of year. I honestly think I might have a touch of that SAD [Seasonal Affective Disorder], since I’ve been sluggish all weekend. Perhaps I’m just tired. It’s been two weeks since I got the pain injection into the shambles I call my hip. And while I’m not quite back walking full time yet, there have been some marked changes in my life. This afternoon, I took a painkiller for the first time in two weeks. Not because my hip was at me, but because I had a headache above my eyes, possibly from too much screentime. This afternoon, I cooked a delicious (if I say so myself!) steak dinner, complete with roasties and veg, and cleaned up afterwards. In fact, I’ve done a lot of cooking, with or without assistance, these last two weeks.

On Thursday, I went to a local disability meeting, with a group with whom I was heavily involved in prior to Covid. Everyone was shocked to see me. I think that they thought I was dead!

I’ve also managed at least half an hour on the exercise bike every day since last Sunday. I find that it’s taking me less time to cycle the same distance. And, if you’re reading this, this is the third blog I’ve written in the space of two weeks. I could get used to this level of productivity – it feels fantastic!

I need to hold onto this buzz I’m feeling, because I’m not able to go back in time. The truth is, whether I like it or not, I’ve lost so much time because of pain and exhaustion. When I finished the Disability Studies course in 2019, my plan was to do the “Train the Trainer” course, which (I think, but am open to correction on this) would enable me to give my own courses. Not only could I deliver Creative Writing Courses, but Disability Equality Training as well. Earn money, get a paycheck!

Or I’d like to do another oral history project, something like Conversations about Activism and Change. I typed out every word of those audio recordings, before editing them down. Damien Walshe and Des Kenny taught me useful lessons as I compiled and edited that collection, lessons that I’d love to apply elsewhere. Maybe I could do a collection of voices of up-and-coming activists? Without the heavy mantel of fatigue, my brain is swirling with ideas.

There are probably a number of reasons why I am reevaluating things at this moment. One is that I turned the big four-oh last year, and my original plan was to have my novel finished by then. Ironically, the first line of this, as yet, unfinished draft is “There are milestones one is meant to have reached by the time they turn forty.” This was me setting a deadline for myself, one that I’ve now missed. I would like to complete Rachel’s story, as I think many would relate to her internal (and external) struggles. She’s a hot mess, and often I want to strangle and hug her in equal measure!

Alison will turn fourteen in February. God willing, she will be going to college, an apprenticeship or a job when she’s finished the Leaving Cert, and as a stay-at-home mum, I suddenly find myself at a loose end. Where once I filled my days playing Lego, setting up Sylvanian houses or doing elaborate art projects, I now find all the time I once spent one-to-one with her spreading out in front of me like an overflowing lake. Don’t get me wrong – I’m still needed. For example, I was awake until one this morning applying tea-stains to her costume for the upcoming Addams Family Musical, as she is playing an ancestor. Apart from these moments, she’d much rather hang out with friends than her mum, which is a normal part of her push for independence. But I don’t really know what to do with myself.

I’m still available for proofreading work, but anecdotal evidence suggests that my opportunities in this area are fast diminishing in favour of AI. This is part of the reason why I didn’t feel motivated to complete that editing course that I started two years ago. If I think too deeply about it all, I start panicking. There’s nothing quite as sobering as scrolling through jobs.ie, and seeing that I am qualified for nothing relevant, nor have I the skills for local jobs. Waitressing, working on the shop floor, even factory work all seem beyond my realm of possibility. Of course, I apply anyway, because you never know. Dear reader, I don’t know if you’ve ever been to a job club. I have, and it was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. I did this online career quiz and the top result was “Interpreter”. When the facilitator asked why I was laughing, I said “I can’t be an interpreter. I need one!” Awkwardness rippled around the room as my fellow jobseekers couldn’t decipher whether I was serious or messing.

So that’s where I am now, wondering what I should do next. All offers and suggestions welcome. In the meantime, I’ll be attacking my novel yet again while drinking the tears I’ve sobbed because of it.