It is genuinely concerning how I let no-named “influencers” influence the choices in my life. The other day I saw a prominent TikToker called “knitting cult lady” (who herself has escaped a cult and written a book about it) talk about how someone can process trauma by writing it out. She expanded by quoting scientific studies, of which she doesn’t give proof of, to back up a claim that if one were to just put their trauma in a matter-of-fact manner, with no emphasis on processing the emotions, that our brains will do it for us without investing the work. Of course I took her words as gold and scientifically sound, even though she could just be talking out of her ass.

Regardless of the truth, it did feed my own desire to write again. It occurred to me a few days ago that I have had zero interest or want to put my thoughts into words. I pondered for a moment wondering if it was just me “moving on” of that want or desire, or if it was due to the fact that my anti-depressants aren’t working. Part of me is leaning into the second theory (I cannot stop consuming sugary food, which is a big tell).

I know that I have not processed my family’s passings. I like to pretend that I have, but whenever I think I’m doing well it gets turned on it’s head. The tears come and I seek out some “substance” to dull the unspoken/unrecognized agony.

With that, I have decided to embark on a year long journey, similar to the one I did with “The Soundtrack of My Life.” Except this time, there will be no music and it will all be documenting my life with my late husband. (God it feels weird saying that.) Each week I will type out a new entry in our story. With the point to keep it brief. There is no sense getting caught up in the prose or narrative thread.

That is what happened the last time I tried to do something similar.

I previously tried writing last November, but I got so caught up in details and got bored of my own voice that I stopped the effort. Maybe I just wasn’t ready.

Since the second year anniversary has come and gone, it should be enough time for me to write it all out, keep it strictly to the details and not wax poetic.

The “Soundtrack” project actually helped me process some lingering trauma I never even realized was there, until I wrote it out. Which is why when this woman came across my video feed it was like I was talking to myself through a separate entity. It brought the focus back to the project and what it would mean. And after all of that nonsense, I just enjoy writing. It is clear to me that I have gotten rusty, because even now I am struggling to get that motor running. I need to get it going again. With it I can use it as an escape from this hellscape, however momentary it might be.