June, again.

And here we are, back in that least favorite of months, June.  Actually, it's not really worse than any other month now, or at least I don't think it is: the days are lighter, warmer, the world around me is greener, the heating bill is lower: but I suspect that somewhere in my subconscious, as has been suggested to me, this time of year does have an effect on the way I feel, the way I am.  Namely, in 11 days, I will have been a widow for two years.  One-fifth of the amount of time that I was a wife.  And life will go on, presumably (although, as I read after Jerry died, in a phrase that I've come to feel so acutely now, tomorrow isn't promised to anyone).  Eventually, if life goes on that long, I'll be a widow for longer than I was a wife.  How strange, and how unfair that is.

And I'm still in the house, and it still isn't on the market, and I'm still working on it in fits and starts and stalling and starting and stalling and starting again.  This week's big undertaking was beginning to tackle the jungle that surrounds the house, the thing that goes by the misnomer of "yard," although "forest," "tangle," and "liability when trying to sell the house, probably" would all work better.  There's actually more grass growing than I would have expected, given that I'd thought all the sod had died: so the first thing I did was haul out the lawn mower, which I hadn't used since before Jerry started his transformation of the lawns into native plants, and deal with the sod-covered portions.  Next, I got out various clippers and shears and trimmers and set to work grappling with the euonymus and buckthorn that have grown completely out of control in the past two and a half years, and I now have both a view of the road in front of the property and a huge pile of cuttings to deal with, and I'm not done yet.

I actually did some paying work as well: was sent an essay written by a Russian mountain climber to translate into English for a book on alpine training.  Ah, yes, paying work: I remember that, vaguely (not highly-paying work - that I don't really remember at all...).  Need to buckle down and get on with finding more of that.  And putting this house on the market.  And figuring out where to live.  And doing all that in the right order.  And that, dear readers, is where, as I've lamented before, I freak and stall.

Will talk to Dr. Psychiatrist next week about upping the Zoloft dosage just a wee bit.  Get this girl back on track.