This has been the week of the funk. A deep, pathetic funk that settled like a large alien object way down deep into the pit of my stomach, so that I felt too heavy to get out of bed in the morning and couldn’t concentrate on anything I was supposed to be working on. The seed of funk was planted way back in August when Jaime came to visit and I took the trip home for a few days.
It took some time to germinate. I kept busy with movie making, new friends, trips out to Phnom Penh, and various illness, but eventually it sprouted into an ugly, self-pitying, anxiety-ridden goblin that fed on feelings of isolation, uselessness, and insecurity about the future.
I’m trying various forms of therapy — company for Pchum Ben, long bike rides, recruiting my coworkers for various social outings — but this exorcism appears to be taking some patience and dedication to ongoing self-treatment.
My prescription combines lots of happy music, exercise, riding my moto with my hair flying in the wind, looking forward to trips out to the field and to my travel plans in Singapore and Thailand, meditating on self-affirming phrases (“Yes, I’m healthy, happy and strong”), and forcing myself to be social even when I would rather ball up under a sheet tent in my bed.