I haven’t written in a while because I haven’t written in a while. Holy crap, can’t write a blog now. It’s been days…weeks…months…two and a half months, actually.

It has been 24 days since my last run…how much does that suck?

I am already 36 years old. Think of all the things that I am too old to try…to start…to hope for…

It has been nearly a year since my last serious bout with the blues. Who cares when it takes three days to get off the couch? 3 outta 365…that is 0.8%…and I let it define my whole person.

It has been 2 weeks since my last whole food juice…and only 2 hours since I nommed on some fried spicy chicken wings.

Do you see what I just did there? I spaghettied up a whole bunch of crap. I focused on yesterday’s shortcomings. I compounded little things to fabricate big things. I let a paper cut fester – then I decided to perceive it as a lost limb.  I know I am not the only one who does this. But I let it convince me that I am a weak freak.

Time to waffle it out…separate the actual from the trash. I have read the book and don’t think it is a dude/chick thing. It is a balance thing. I am over spaghettied and under waffled.

Is this a bit of public therapy? Maybe. But what the hell, I pay for this space And, quite frankly, I know a couple of truths:

1. I have never engaged in a public display of (tactful) confession (mine or another’s) that didn’t result in some type of good.
2.  Support of friends is priceless…and…friends can’t support you if they don’t know you need it.
3. I am not the only one who feels this way…and…having others speak it is helpful.
4. Speaking it = accountability
5. I now know better how I feel since I have thought a good piece of it out on paper.

So, now what?

I write – even if I feel like I have nothing to say and even if it has been two and a half months since I have done it. If I waited any longer it might well be three months – and that is worse. So this may not feel good, but it feels better now than it would tomorrow.

I run tomorrow simply because it is already too dark right now. The husband will already say I have started back to soon Don’t want to further it by going after dark.

I love birthdays. I will continue to enjoy their function of celebration of a person’s existence. But screw their relevance to time passed and remaining time on the clock. My life is not a football game. I am not limited to, nor am I guaranteed,  four quarters of quality playing time. I will continue to change-up the plays, enjoy the process, march up the field, and take a loss when necessary.

If occasional cycles of emotional unrest is the worst health complication I have right now, then I am amazingly fortunate.  It could be so much worse. The cycles could be more often, more severe. My self awareness could be lower and I could be totally at my chemistry’s mercy. I could be in a place with no support, no understanding, no love, no grace. I am not. I am blessed beyond measure and I will not forget that.

I will remember that my body will behave like garbage if I fuel it with garbage…after Mexico

See what I did right there

There are times when I worry that I am not really a writer. Times like this, when I know that I should put words on paper and just can’t.

When I started this Lenten season, I decided that I was going to put some things down that distract. Facebook was an obvious choice. Turn Around Tuesday was a little less obvious. But both of those things have had me interacting with people on a regular basis in ways that I am not sure are authentically me. At times it seems that they are more reactionary and not so much creative.

So now that there isn’t so much reactionary writing, very little in the way of creative, spontaneous, or original words seem to come to mind. I worry that I am not really a writer.

I’m sure I need to commit to putting something on paper every day regardless of what it is. I’m worried that won’t work. So the fear of failure results in a procrastination of the effort.

I also think that some prompts might help. I’m also afraid that will fail. I also think that defeats the purpose. I also think that if I were truly a writer I would need it. I also think I’m just an idiot and should take help where I can get it.

I have a brain that feels like an incorrectly wound ball of yarn. The material is good. The possibility for craft is there. But it’s just such a mess. It makes it hard to see the creation in the middle of the chaos.

I worry that I am not a writer. Thinking about that statement as I look at it on the paper I think that may not be true. I’m fairly certain that I am a writer. I think what I’m worried about is who is the reader. And isn’t that some narcissistic bullshit. But truthfully, who doesn’t hone their craft, create, and work hard to put forth a bit of their authentic self with at least a little hope that somebody out there will affirm and appreciate? Don’t we all do that? And is that really so wrong?

No. I don’t think that the desire for appreciation and recognition is wrong. But I think that the fear of looking for that and not finding it has prevented me from creating at all. And that is terribly wrong.

I am a writer. I am a creator. But as long as I remain fearful, I will remain tangled.