Write On

It used to be that my pen was my comfort. I wrote when I felt stressed, overwhelmed, sad, pretty much any time I had big feelings, I wrote. This has been a lifelong habit, even from when I was a little girl crafting background stories for every doll in my collection. I have journals and notebooks galore, mostly filled with embarrassing quips, obnoxious opinions, and run-on sentences. I literally have a notebook in each purse and tote bag and in my nightstand, in my glove compartment, and extras in my trunk just in case. Writing has been my balm, a cathartic act of calm and centering. Or an angry outburst to give my frustration and fears a place to rest. 

But it’s been months since I wrote. Even my journal screams angrily when I open it up to stacks of black pages. I haven’t the energy but have all the time. It’s to the point where I am so deflated that I don’t even know where and how to start. Life has sapped me. My days are zombie-like in my imposter syndrome existence, and I don’t have spare energy to give of myself , even to the things I typically feast on. How can I find my writing groove again? How can I ease back to feeling some bubbles of energy?

I suppose this is step one.

There’s been a long pause on this little blog of mine, but it’s not for lack of thought or ideas or inspiration. Never have I gone this long without opining, And my, how much there is to opine about. I just lost my gumption. It’s a terrible feeling that leaves me spiraling into a dull ache. I have things to say. I need to write. But I am having trouble starting. 

The world of late has me feeling a level of despair that I have not felt so keenly since 2016. Nothing seems to be going right, and we are, in fact, moving backwards in many ways. I think I’ve felt despondent since someone recently told me that studies show Americans are more racist today than before the civil rights movement. How can this be? I thought our youth was going to save us, righting the wrongs of my generation and those before me. Alas, one reason I am in a deep rut is because in my bones I feel this and know it’s true. I see it and hear it myself.

My heart breaks a little every day.

Writing has been the one thing that lifted my spirits, in small snippets or grand sweeps. I am so lost, so behind, so upside down that I don’t know where to begin. I’m starting here with a small step, my single dot rolled on the die to get me moving again.

There are words in my heart that have no structure, but there is a yearning to give them life. I’ve said before I’m going to commit to create more than consume, so here I begin. Write on.