Rewrite

I had pretty much given up writing. It wasn’t fun, it felt contrived and I no longer cared enough about myself to exercise that part of my brain.

It was no longer joyful, effortless, fun. Trying to write, to release what was pent up inside and to try to make sense of it, defeated its own purpose. I was pushing an agenda, trying to defeat the darkness in my life. It should have been comfort, like a friend you know so well and for so long you just let them be with you. I wasn't okay with it lacking prose or meaning, to just be writing, to be the equivalent of having a bad day or just calling off and not making it in to work. It had to be more, to have depth, to be significant and consequential. When your life lacks control, you try to control your life, and I needed my writing to be perfect.

My job was grueling and the situation at home was all consuming. I gave up everything that was me during that time. All I did was work and sleep and work more from home on the weekends. When I tried to focus on what I needed, I didn’t get it right and made things worse. When I didn’t focus on what I needed I just buried everything until it erupted. That wasn’t a good choice, as it let me down a path that made me not be me.

I was fragile and acted strong, until one day my fragile strength abandoned me. I stopped writing. I stopped thinking I deserved to be happy. My deepest longings were replaced by my deepest fears.

I’m not even sure I’m me now. We all change, so who knows if I’m really still the person I think I used to be. Knowing that I am not alone gives me a level of comfort, to help with what I can only describe as a pane of glass being completely shattered. I am still trying to put myself back together.

To some extent I feel more like I think I used to in a long time, but who can really know. Is the story we are writing of our lives, filled with bittersweet, heart wrenching, beautiful, and soulful emotions and moments, really just a fantasy about how we wish our life had gone?

I wish I was smart enough to know what would be better for me. But I don’t, so I keep trying.
We must take the risks we are asked to take, we must put ourselves out there and remember not everything in this world is good or bad, it just..is. No point in crying over spilled emotions, but I still do it. I write and rewrite and start again.