I crawled into bed at 8:30 tonight, early for almost anyone, super early for a night owl like me.
I feel like I haven’t blogged much lately because I’m not sure how to do it without sounding whiny, and I hate that. I just imagine everyone is so damn sick of me saying how hard 2018 has been.
So then I try to write about something else entirely, but it just feels so fake, and I hate fakeness even more than whining. 🙂
Poetry almost feels like the most perfect language right now because you can obscure everything, stay passionate but obscure everything else. So I write poems.
Here I will attempt to be authentic without complaining. Just the facts.
I’m in survival mode. My house is a mess. I miss working on my novel and long to be reunited with the writer part of my identity, but I’m melting in the summer heat, which makes me feel like a bucket full of holes. My back has been spasming as if it were water on the boil. It leaves me full of knots that feel like cement, or like the stone “eggs” that work themselves out of Chan Dan Ya.
I’m lonely. After being dumb enough to let the same guy ghost me again, I dont have much energy around online dating, and even though I know that a romantic partner will not solve all the problems in the world, it does feel like it would be easier to be sick if I could just hold someone’s hand. I’m sad, but it has more to do with circumstances than straight-up depression, I think.
I guess the best summary of 2018 would be to say that I’m grieving a lot of things. Wow. It actually feels really good to be able to summarize it that way. I’m grieving.
I’m grieving. Had to guide myself there, but I got there, and now I get to just grieve. That’s not whining. That’s real. It’s grief.
(I know this doesn’t seem like a huge breakthrough to everyone, but clearly it is for me, haha!)
Because I have compassion for those who grieve. So maybe I can find some for myself.