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.