Here we are… halfway through March. Inching ever closer to the ultimate day. The final day.

The past few days I have started behaving peculiarly. I’m consuming food like a vacuum and I’m even forgetting ever even having eaten something until I go to get it to consume it again. I’m disassociating so much so that I nearly refuse to get out of bed. And with all of these signs I do not feel sad. Not actively. Looking at the signs it is clearly depression but… I feel nothing. It’s as if my heart has shut down.

I want to write something. Put “pen to paper” and pull out this poison but I cannot think of what to say or where to even begin. I can’t even be bothered. I just want to lay in coffin and shut the lid. (God that sounds so emo…)

I lay in the darkness of my spare room, listening to music trying to even figure out some poetic way to describe how I feel but… I feel like a husk; an empty soulless doll staring forward with a smiling, blank expression.

Sometimes I worry that this will cause me to have a nervous breakdown. I feel as though my mind is strong. It is solid and sturdy to weather any storm I may encounter. But you never know… does one ever? I keep thinking about my dad… did he sense his weakness? Did he feel the snap? Was he even aware of it? Was there any control or was he a puppet with something else pulling the strings?

I’m sorry… this makes no sense. I’m not making any coherent thought.

Sometimes I wonder if life is just attempting to cobble together something that looks like happiness. Like it never will ever be everything you want it to be, but it can resemble something like what one would imagine. I say that because… everything in my life has always been that way. I’ve always given up something I wanted because it was a misshapen piece and didn’t fit in. Even now as the world around me is utter shut I’m just stringing together minuscule joys to find some sense of peace. Yet even those are nothing when faced with the overwhelming reality of EVERYTHING.

There is no escape from it. And even when one ends I am SURE there will be something even shittier waiting on the other side of this mountain.

I try and have some fucking perspective because… this is bad but not as bad as things could be. I’m trying to ground myself by thinking of what every Palestinian is going through. And try as I may I will NEVER understand. The chaos and cruelty they are enduring is beyond comprehension.

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.