Recently I’d had some problems with motivating myself to write and to sort myself out generally: self care, home maintenance, that sort of thing. My life is a bit of a mess, and I want to do something about it, but there’s something holding me back that never used to trouble me.
It’s not agoraphobia, whatever it is. I have no fear of open spaces, or of crowds. There’s nothing fearful about actually being outside-it’s the process of getting there that I struggle with. I can’t tell you exactly what it is, but it’s some form of invisible barrier keeping me indoors, or keeping me in my bed.