Everything I’ve typed over the last several days has been shit. It’s hard to keep what I’ve written when typing things out as opposed to writing them because deleting can be so easy. You’d never know how many times it takes me to start writing a thought and feel like I’ve hit a groove that matches what’s going on in my head. Not too long ago, I experienced an interaction that resulted in me later questioning how my writing is perceived, which I try my best not to do. It was a real-life, real-time playful, yet hurtful (maybe I’m sensitive?) jab at how I write. My struggles to get shit out predates when that experience happened and I know I’m not the only person who deals with this. It feels good to not be special in that regard, it’s a reminder that I’m not alone.

The one thing that’s remained consistent has been the journaling I’ve done. It’s been over a month of writing one page every day. I no longer limit myself to only writing in the mornings, because sometimes I just can’t. I’ll write when I feel most ready. It’s become a habit. To be honest there never results in reactions. I hold myself accountable there, I react there without any kind of restrictions, and it’s freeing. I usually use that space to recap the days and feelings had. Last week, I bought three of the same journals because I enjoy the format of this one so much.

Lately, there have been sweet moments and ones that have met me without much air to breathe in. I made it through though, and for that I’m grateful. This work-week is only two and a half days long. It will end with a queersgiving dinner with some friends. It’ll be lovely once I get to that point. I just have to get there. There’s so much to do between now and then, and I’m really only talking about work things. I find myself talking more and more about my job, and that makes me a little sad. Within the last couple of years, I’ve really leaned back into the refusal of allowing a job to define me or overtake more than the allotted 40 hours of mental time while I’m clocked in. It’s hard to keep that contained because it demands to take up so much space. It’s even taking space here, in my writing. Yikes.

Socially, things are fine though I don’t feel as present as I could be in my friend group. I don’t know if it’s my mind’s automatic shift during this time of year that’s causing me to sort of check out, but I feel it and it makes the inaccurate voice in my head that tells me I’m a bad friend more present. I know it’s not real. I know I’m not a bad friend. I’m just depressed! It’s fine, really. Who isn’t? Lol, kidding, that’s sad. I mean, I am depressed, but surely everyone isn’t. Not gatekeeping depression though, promise.

Now is about the time I’d delete all that I’ve written, close my laptop, and try again later, but I don’t want to do that this time. I journaled one night, drunkenly about my best work coming from me leaning into my cringe. To elaborate on that a little further in a way that sweet, drunken me couldn’t, honesty in a public way makes me cringe because I think I’m more tethered to anyone’s and maybe everyone’s approval than I would like to admit. I think I’ve come so far compared to who I was five years ago, or even two years ago. Fuck, within the last year alone I can see and feel the changes inside me. It’s notable and undeniable. I love that for me, but still. I have a lot of work to do. I’m not discouraged by it. If anything, I’m inspired by it. I’ve come this far, who’s to say where my limit exists? Perhaps it doesn’t.

Until next time.