My journalism professor once said that there is a story in everything. Even in the lack of one lies the question, why isn’t there? That’s what I’m telling myself now. As it turns out I have nothing to write about. I don’t want to write. I just don’t feel like it. It’s been much of the same for me since the holidays and try as I might I have nothing left to give. I’m exhausted.

Obviously, some part of me wants to, or else I wouldn’t be here now. Yet as I attempt to do this I just don’t know what I want to say. There is nothing of significance happening in my life, at the moment, that I want to share. And I have grown so exhausted with my own complaints that I don’t want to open up about those.

For the select few that may worry, I am medicated. Steadily, regularly, my blood stream courses with antidepressants so I don’t go off the deep end. I had to get back on them because for a brief moment I didn’t want to be around. I contemplated how I would do it, and what that would mean to those around me. That was the wake-up call I needed to put me back on them from my brief hiatus.

For a hundred percent transparency, I will say that the want to fade away has not gone. It’s just not as vocal or as active as previous. I’ve gotten to a place where “if a car hit me and I died, I’d be okay.” Or “if Russia dropped a nuclear bomb on California, they better do it where I’m not limping away.”

The BF doesn’t like those kinds of statements but… It’s how I feel.

The title is the last time I wrote. I stopped my year long project at my hubby’s birthday. The holidays just got me overwhelmed. (It’s amazing how little things can become overwhelming tasks for me.)