I weaned myself off caffeine. Then gradually, I would have a tea here, a tea there, to the point where I’m addicted to the crap again. It isn’t as bad as it could be; I don’t drink it every day. Yet I have gotten to the point that on the days I don’t drink it I feel like a rundown engine, like I’m in fourth gear heading up a hill, my parts clanking.
Today I haven’t had any, and while I have had a few uninterrupted hours while Isabel sleeps, I have not had the energy or spark to perform any of my creative tasks at all. I picked up the cello and played a bit. Blah. I sat down here to write. Nothing to say. I need to finish my taxes, which really won’t be difficult, but oh, so exhausting. I just want to lie around and watch a movie. It’s pathetic. I did manage a run this morning, and it’s a good thing I did it then, because I wouldn’t do it now.
Caffeine is insidious. It’s a drug, for sure. I’m debating just drinking some just to get over the hump. I need to work on my book. Baby is occupied. This is as good a time as any. But if I do, I’m just keeping the cycle going. When would ever be a good time? I just don’t know.
This post is about as blah as I feel in my caffeine-deprived state.