I want to write. About what I have no idea. I am a ball of emotions. I want to impart some immensely emotional or prophetic piece that will stir the hearts of whomever reads it. Yet I can’t for the life of me think of what I could or even would write.

When I was younger, writing was how I would cope with my emotions. I’m a very cerebral person and live (for the most part) in my head. For many years I thought this was the way everyone was but… I have learned it’s kind of just me and a handful of other people. Writing things out always helped me get my thoughts straight. By letting the words flow from my fingertips I could examine and evaluate them in such a way that made my feelings these abstract “editable” things. I could rearrange and reword them in such a way that I could make them make sense. Now I leave everything bottled up.

The most likely culprit of my inaction is due to the secrecy I held. Or of what I was worried would be found by someone else, should I put it in some electronic journal. Some may respond by saying “well, why wouldn’t you just have a secret journal, that no one could read?” And what would be the point of that, Jan? “A writer writes so a reader can read.” I have always felt that way, which is why I always treated my life like an open book. I wanted to share my story so I felt heard or understood. Then the secrets began and the dislike for my openness was made apparent that I shut down.

Then there was the “distractions” whenever I would write or the belittling that would ensue. It started outside but it moved deeper inward to the point that I believed it as gospel. I stopped writing. I couldn’t let myself believe that I was good. I refused.

I think the moment that started to reverse all of it was when my husband told me that my novel was good. The mouth who had set the ball of my self loathing in motion was the one who picked it up from its trajectory. Its strange. That really did undo everything from before. Well… I wouldn’t go as far as to say that. What it did do was repair some of the damage. It brought me the light that I needed to get out of the darkness of which I had allowed myself to be consumed.

Now that I am older I have let go of the want to be a “famous” author, or even one that has household recognition. I’m finally in a place where I would be happy as a “published author.” My biggest dream is to grab a professionally printed and bound copy of my manuscript from a bookstore shelf, hold it in my hands and know that I made it.

Now if only I could get this want to write to line up with the manuscripts I have languishing on various computers and thumb drives.

I don’t understand, why am I drawn to social media? I will spend hours perusing the countless posts of the horrific bullshit that is going on across the globe. No matter how upsetting all of it is I cannot look away. It’s maddening. Especially so because I cannot do one fucking thing to change it. Not a one. Me posting some funny (misspelled) quip or reposting someone else’s well written one will not do one goddamn thing. Maybe, MAYBE change someone’s mind, but other than that… not a thing.

Yet I scroll on.

Why did the world decide to take a massive dump? I feel especially screwed because during a pandemic people refused to treat as such, my mother was deteriorating mentally with Alzheimer’s and my husband was diagnosed with ALS. At that time people were getting checks mailed to their house from the government to supplement their income, due to lack of work, whereas I was making the most money I have ever made in my entire life. Now after all the free cash, and a drastic uptick of interest rates I am lucky if I get more than 5 jobs a month. Where’s my handouts?

Now with the final death coming up the walkway toward me, the world has to go and get itself into war. Like… can’t I catch one fucking break? Jesus.

I just want to fucking scream. Most of the time I’m doing it in my head behind a forced smile.

The thing that makes me the most angry is it’s just gonna get fucking worse. It’ll never let up. Never once in my lifetime. Maybe my niece’s and nephew’s time.

It has become abundantly clear, as of late, that I really don’t know how to handle my emotions. At all. The moment something stressful occurs I do 1 of 2 things. I either stuff my face with some kind of sugary goodness or I buy something. Sometimes I’ll do both if the rush of one wasn’t enough to pale the emotional anguish.

On some level I have always known this about myself. When I was a kid I would sit down in front of the tv with a family size bag of chips and finish them in one sitting. I was a tremendously unhappy kid. I could not take any kind of rejection because I have always been my most authentic self. Well… apart from the years where I was a careless liar who would spew the most ridiculous whoppers. But I’m getting off track.

It’s been that way when I was cheating and holding in secrets, it’s been that way when I moved in with my parents like a failure, and it’s been that way when I worked in a highly negative environment with the most toxic and terrible coworkers.

But I was poor then, so food was the easiest fix to attain. Thankfully.

Now I have “adult money” and an inability to tell myself no when the mood strikes.

Example… there was this retired Viking ship LEGO set that I wanted to accompany the “Viking village” I purchased. It is a 3 in 1 and I told myself that I shouldn’t buy it. It was Amazon for $140. I could buy newer, cooler sets for that amount of cash. So I ignored the purchase.

Then I was doing something for my husband and the panic/stress set in and I bought it without a moments hesitation. It should be here tomorrow, hopefully.

One of the things both my husband and brother-husband are concerned about is my turning into a hoarder. I freely and willingly admit that I have a tendency to pack away useless crap. Oh yes. Through the years after accepting this character flaw I’ve gotten better about it. But now it seems to be growing.

The boys are concerned because most, if not all of the stories the hoarders on the show tell, are that they never got over a traumatic episode whether it be a death, disappearance, rape etc. These people started to accumulate shit to fill an emotional void. I’m doing that. Right now. I’m buying up Lego and trading cards like they’re going out of business.

I’m just going crazy. Legitimately, certified coocoo. And I can’t escape it.

I’m really worried that tonight is the night. I find myself just staring at my husband as he’s breathing. Or… struggling to breathe. The machine is doing its best pushing air into his lungs but it seems like sometimes they don’t want to accept what it has to give. His brow stitches together as though his sleeping thoughts are perplexed to this failure. My own breath catches in my chest and I wait in agony, my heartbeat thundering in my ears, until his body relents and he takes a big deep breath in. His expression and my body relaxes and we repeat the cycle.

It’s weird. I can’t stop staring at him. I’m questioning my own actions, wondering if I have overmedicated him. Although I quickly reassure myself that I gave him what he requested and what is prescribed. I tend to do that a lot… I make myself the cause of everything. The flaw. The mistake.

I hope I’m wrong in my assessment. My prediction. Mainly because I feel like today was wasted. That I didn’t get enough time with him or tell him that I love him enough.

Listen to me… I’m acting as though it’s come true. I’m going to sign off here before I say something I regret. As if I somehow spoke it into existence.