Writing is supposed to be my voice. My refuge in the storms of life. Writing has always helped me through the pain and unknowing that comes with life and change.
If this is so, why is it that during this horribly confusing and depressing time in my life, I can't seem to write to get through it?
Are there some things even our refuge can't combat?
This is notably the worst time in life I have experienced thus far. Family torn apart, followed by lies, sickness, job problems, death, big debt, even bigger mistakes, then the threat of major surgery. Most people would say, experiencing all of that in a five year span is normal.
What about 9 months?
I have had just about every big life experience in the last 9 months as possible.
I'm not looking for sympathy, I'm just looking for a way out.
A healthy way. I've almost exhausted all of those options too.
So, back to the basics. Writing. Even if it's not about me, and my life, writing.
Being outdoors. Just sitting in nature.
Fresh air.
Sleep has been coming easier lately, with the help of modern science and medicine.
Unfortunately, I am secluding myself from people. I don't want to go out with friends, not just because I can't afford it, but because I don't want to be around people. I don't answer the phone, I don't respond to e-mail. I want to disappear from the radar for a bit.
Is that wrong?
I need to reconnect with myself before I face the world again.
The game is too exhausting.
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