It felt like I was on an eternal sabbatical from writing. This eternity, which has been a consequence of several reasons, mostly unavoidable, made me feel almost brain dead. As if I was no longer capable of a cogent thought. In the past two months, I felt anxious, bitter and regrettable on most days. I was ranting – a lot to myself, much to my husband, a little less to my mother and at times even to my children. As if my existence was under attack or worse my identity was altered into an unrecognizable being who’s only concern was to keep the house proper and running.