Another Sunday is ebbing away. Warm, windy and overcast; another cold front is due for South Florida. 

The past few days have been awful: depressed and hungry. At one point, I couldn’t even cry, just couldn’t find the tears. A scary sensation: the feeling, not of being in a black hole, but of being a black hole. Of being void, hollow—nothing. 

And as for the hunger—this was the hunger of a very scant pantry stretched to its absolute limit. This probably also aggravated my mood, what with the dip in blood sugar and the lack of serious protein, fats, and nutrients.

No doubt some thinspirationist would say, “good for you, you don’t need to eat.” But let me be perfectly clear: I am not, and never will be, a fan of anything even remotely diet-related, let alone pro-ana or pro-mia. And I do need to eat. I like to eat. I like to cook, and to share food with others. Believe you me, it does warm my heart to stand in the kitchen and roast vegetables, marinate mushrooms, prep a chicken for roasting, etcetera…and it kills me not to have the wherewithal to do so.

Rant aside, I did get some more writing done. And I’ve tucked into several books, too. So, for the moment, my secret sharer (depression) is quiet. As they say, it’s a day at a time,