Last night, I wrote:
A lot going on.
Ever so slight money worries.
I’m worried for the people I love.
I miss one desperately.
I’ve been missing the point entirely.
Been trying my best and not really succeeding.
Probably not trying hard enough.
Been listening, but not hearing.
Nasty piece of work, me. Been like it since birth.
Getting shot a lot, face, but foot mostly (figuratively speaking).
My hands feel tied.
Piggy in the middle.
Too much time.
A just right amount of time would be nice.
Writer’s block. Still. Like as if I haven’t better things to struggle with than thoughts I can’t put on a page.
I could struggle with my weight.
I could take up crocodile wrestling and struggle with not getting killed.
So many things I don’t know how to change.
A damn bag in a tree rustling and pissing me off as I’m writing this.
And then damn covid strikes my home and it’s not me who has it, but I’ve got to stay confined longer, I’ve got to live with the damn virus and I know my luck — I’ll be symptomatic the day before my freedom and I’ll be trapped another 10 fucking days, hating every minute of my fucking life.
I know this is me being dramatic.
I know this is me struggling to adjust to the things life is bringing with it.
If I reason it out, I have my valid reasons and I’m taking them some place unreasonable.
I’m not looking at it with good eyes, I’m looking at it with fed-up eyes — I need to change my eyeballs.
Delirious in prison.
I’m being more my own impact than anything else around me.
I’m not appreciating the little joys like I tell people to do all the time.
I’m forgetting I enjoyed them.
But my biggest little joy is on hiatus and I find I don’t want to be smiling.
I’m sick of adjusting.
I don’t want to be cooped up in my nice spacious flat for the next hundred-million days (estimate).
I want the choice to leave.
I want some measure of something to get easier.
Maybe if I could just write down the sentences I need to write then that would be a relief.
Like these sentences.
I do feel better.
Nothing has changed.
I haven’t adjusted.
But, it’s out, mostly — I’ve written the gist.
I’ve realised that I need to get a grip.
I need to get over myself and adjust — much like when I visit my parents, I have to die inside a touch to survive this imprisonment. Hibernate, more like.
I need to acknowledge my right to feel fed-up and overwhelmed, and make my peace with it.
I need to stop feeling sorry for myself.
I need to notice the sentences I can write.
I need to remember that I’m good with what I do for me and others, I need never amend this about me.
It doesn’t help that I’ve been in a migraine since Monday.
But in happier news, the cough I’ve had for a few days, I can now officially call dry since it meets my own definition — this means, fingers crossed, I’m symptomatic and therefore can’t catch it on the 21st and be confined until December!!
I never knew a dry cough could bring so much hope…