Keep writing, I guess
I go through moments when I write a lot, and then I don't write, and whenever I come back to writing I think to myself "I need to write about not writing" but then I think "what's the point of that?" and I try to rack my brain for the things that are going on to fill the space of not talking about not writing.
Like the fact that I missed my mother's birthday, it didn't even cross my mind, and then when I saw something about it, I realized that it's actually over and severed from my heart in a real way. And then I think about how I decided I wasn't going to call her mom anymore, she would just be Suzan to me. But when I say "I missed Suzan's birthday" no one will understand the significance of that, so maybe I will say "mother" because that sounds colder than mom, or mama, or any of the other names for her that used to mean something to me but were torn out of my mouth the moment she told me I was lying scum*.
(*paraphrased, those were not her real words but that's what they felt in my heart.)
Or maybe I should write about the fact that my body feels like a stranger's house that I've never seen before with doors that are closed and hallways that last forever and all these places I don't know. How do I love something I don't know? How do I begin to love something that feels so strange and wrong to me? I try and mask it with love, but the truth always comes out and I can't stand to see myself anymore and that feels weird and hurtful and I hate the ways that I speak hate over myself in my head, but I guess I just hate myself sometimes. But I'm loved ? And by hating myself, I choose to put a wall between the person I love the most. I put up a wall that he cannot see over or break down because he loves me, and this body feels like home for him, but I feel like a stranger so how do I invite my person into a stranger's house?
Or maybe I should write about my career and my work and how I am exhausted and bored all at the same time and trying to push through that wall feels impossible or just too hard so sometimes it's easier to be complacent. Maybe? I don't know if I know anymore.
Or maybe I should write about my recent fear of therapy and how I can't stand think about going, and whenever I do my breath becomes rapid and I can't stop crying and i don't know why*.
(*I do know why.)
And then I think about how I always write about my aches and my pains, so maybe I should write about the good. Like my best friends' new deck and how I can't wait to read and smoke bones and drink beer with them in the tiny private sun spot right off the back of their very small home that makes me feel more safe than most places. Or maybe my progression with pottery and how it feels like this practice may stick, despite being good or bad at it. Or maybe the friend who I love dearly and feel so full in my heart every time he comes over and shares hugs and bones and shares my dumpster fire tendencies. How he always wants to make fancy cocktails or drink 40's and there's not much of an in-between for him and I love him a lot for that. Or maybe the new fence in our yard that allows me to spend all my time in sun reading with dear Booker.
Or maybe I should write about learning to communicate with Ian. How I feel like I'm learning how to yell less, and how he told me that I don't feel like a safe place for vulnerability and that's something I need to actively work on and stop being so defensive and how every time we fight I have to remind myself "approach with love. approach with love. approach with love" even when I want to hit him in the face and scream at him until he runs away from me, because people always tell me that I run away so maybe it's not true if I make others run away from me. But I love him and loving him is the most important thing to me so why am I so crazy and bad at it sometimes?
I don't know what to write about, but I want to keep writing I guess.