I don’t know what to write about when I don’t write.
I lose my flow. Things don’t ever seem to work the way they do when I write regularly. It doesn’t matter if I’m writing about the most inane junk, it helps just to write. I know, as the days go by without writing, my outlet is plugged. My drain valve isn’t releasing, and the pressure builds. Eventually, I blow.
Tonight, the pressure was too much, and I blew.
There is this funny phenomenon that happens. Something is missing from your life, so you decide to find what you need to fill it. I’m lonely, right? I’m unhappy? Well, I just need something that will make me less lonely, less unhappy. So lets get a puppy. Check. Now what? When I’m lonely and unhappy, the puppy just annoys me. I want him to leave me alone.
I don’t want to be home alone all the time, so I should get another job. Work seven days a week? Check. Now what? Now, I’m so mentally and emotionally exhausted at the end of every day, and at the end of every week, I have nothing left to give. In the past six days, I have twice come home at 5:30 and gone straight to bed. No dinner, no socializing, no TV… nothing. Just sleep. My mom would say, “If you could sleep, you must have really needed it.”
I don’t think I need it. I don’t think I’m tired. I think that mental and emotional exhaustion becomes physical – palpable. It gets to the point where I am so drained that I have nothing left inside of me, and I just want to sleep it away. The catch is, I want to sleep and not wake up. I want to not have to work the following day. I want a release, a break, a chance to be myself. I don’t really remember me anymore. I hear I used to be a fun sorta girl.
I told Brock the other night that I wanted a baby. His answer to me was, “Mandy… a baby wont make you happy.”
It was brutally honest, and it hurt to the core, but it made me realize something. Why would he tell me something that I want so badly wouldn’t make me happy? Didn’t that have to mean that I’m unhappy in the first place? This leads oh-so-obviously to the question that doesn’t want to be answered: Why am I unhappy?
We talked for a few hours tonight. I spent most of my time crying, because evidently the most readily available way for me to pour out some grief and emotion is to let it run down my face. I cry, and then I feel guilty for being upset and crying. Then I cry some more about something else. I make comments like, “I feel like I’m ruining everything,” and, “I don’t know how to deal with this anymore.”
When I’m finally done, I feel better. I feel lighter, and less down. I know that I can handle it, and that I can push through, get the job done. I know I can keep working seven days a week, no matter how unhappy it makes me. I know I can keep missing my family, and being so far from home. I know I can do all of these things… I just don’t know what I want to do.
Because what I ‘can do’ and what I ‘want to do’ are two entirely different animals.
There is no rhyme or reason. There is no sense, no thread, no manner to this post. It was exactly what I needed it to be. It was getting it out, getting it down, and getting it. Sometimes I need to see things to get them.