I started this blog with every intention of posting nearly every day. I started it KNOWING that's what I would do. I've always enjoyed writing and I've always found it therapeutic. I haven't written now for years, since I had my first child nine years ago. I don't know what made me think I could just jump back into it and the words would just flow. Maybe the fact that I have a lot to say? But the words don't come. They are trapped inside my head, fighting over each other to get out.
I've been told that my writing has promise. My teachers and professors loved it. Now I read it and I sound stupid to my own ears. I sound sad and pathetic. I suppose I am. I suppose that's what my life has become. Of course there are wonderful parts of my life. Parts that are bright, glimmering halos over the sadness that weighs on me nearly every moment of every day. But the blackness of this despair I feel is what really colors my reality.
I spoke with my therapist, Stu. (I only mention his name because I love saying it inside or outside my head. It has such a fun sound to it.) Stu says I should try some stream of consciousness type writing. He said this because I told him I have a million thoughts running through my head, some of them quite beautiful, but when I try to put them on paper... well it just doesn't happen. I have about six posts that I have started on here and never finished. In fact, every single one of them is two or three sentences long and then it just stops. I find myself avoiding this blog because I know I'll get here and lock up.
But here I am today. Saying a whole lot of nothing.
I do know this. I miss my boy. I miss Holden.