Yes, I have been writing every day. It's just that some days I write and write and clever things come out of my brain, and some days I stare at a blank screen for an hour and I feel like a total failure. What I'm succeeding at is making myself stare at the blank screen for an hour instead of escaping into TikTok. I don't think I'm producing anything good but I'm creating a habit, maybe?
So one of the things I was trying to write was what was supposed to be an allegorical short story about a woman getting stuck in a tunnel of memories of her dog that she failed and then killed, and being so sad but also not wanting to leave because that's her only connection to him. But apparently, I don't have the energy or time or gumption or talent to make that happen. So then I thought maybe it should just be a personal essay about a real girl stuck in a metaphorical pit of despair.
Sounds fun, doesn't it?
That'll getcha guffawing in a cafe.
I'm always conflicted in times like this. Should I be writing this down? Or letting it go? Should I be distracting myself out of this mood or embracing it? Letting the waves of grief wash over me, pull me down, drag my body on the rocky bottom of self-loathing? Is there a painful truth under all of it that I can get to, that will make it make sense, that will help me finally move on? Do I have to feel it all until it's all felt out? Or do I just need to go through the motions of forgiving myself - set boundaries like a person who has self-worth, practice self-care like someone who believes she is deserving of forgiveness?
Probably this is all because of my therapy conversation yesterday, about charging more for my doggie services, or charging at all in certain cases. And how I feel like a fraud because Gus. Who am I to charge people to spend time with their dogs when I couldn't help my own?
I mentioned none of this most recent mood swing to Brian, because he will just try to fix it or talk me out of it, and for all my uncertainty, I know for sure that is not what I need right now. I only mentioned that my ankle hurts because I'm on day three of walking too much, despite my instructions and intention to take it easy. But he came in shortly after I got home, unloaded the dishwasher, made a fire, and told the google speaker to play harry styles, which he knows is my cheer up music. He's sitting on the couch, playing on his iPad. petting Razzy and Murph. Not talking, not asking questions, just being. And it is as comforting as a thing can be, when one is stuck in one's head and feeling miserable and not wanting to talk about it or about anything else. Just to have company. It's not magically giving meaning to the fucked up things that have happened, or healing my trauma, but it's nice. So much better than someone telling you things that your brain knows but your heart just can't believe.
Comments
Post a Comment