I think I have writer’s block. We’ll go with that, anyway. I write, I just hate every bit of what I produce. It’s stilted and never what I’m trying to say. The Recycle Bin on my desktop is getting a workout.
(A brief pause as I change the channel on the background noise. “Dr. Phil” is not something I’m willing to tolerate.)
Maybe I’m overwhelmed. More and more things seem to pile on top of my already-large piles. There’s my eating disorder recovery, my mental illness management, my cancer, my various relationship issues, my mom’s cancer, my dad’s COPD and memory issues, and my ongoing, chronic pain situation. Add paternalistic and insulting doctors to the mix, and the recipe’s complete.
Maybe something had to give and “something” was writing? Personal conversations are a better idea than pointed, passive aggressive posts, anyway. Though how passive aggressive are they, if the people you’re referencing sotto voce don’t read the blog?
I’ve been productive if we’re discussing non-Nora Roberts-style pursuits. I started writing in my diary again, got back to my meditating and gratitude practices, and reconfigured my exercise routine. I got crafty, and got going on the neglected housework and yardwork. I even scheduled appointments, something my anxiety hates.
(Out there and talking to people: are you kidding me?)
My dentist may tsk over yet another failing tooth, but my first appointment with a recommended accupuncturist will hopefully ease the sting. In a metaphorical sort of way.
(The word count’s a guess. I hope I’m close.)