I struggle to write today.  At least, without my streaming services, I am able to focus on my feelings that inspire me to write.  Last night, I wanted to break my newfound healthy habit, so instead I grabbed a book;  It was a rough night of cravings and loneliness.  I am proud that I didn’t bend to my old bad habits of dealing with emotions.  

Today, I wanted to write and I wasn’t sure what to say or how to say it.  In retrospect, I should have written last night while I was in the middle of a bad mood.  I imagine I would be furiously writing with a pen and ripping holes into the paper with the intensity of my daily life griefs.  I have so much I need to write down and work through, but the strong memories scare me off into avoidance: one of my favorite places to visit.  

Yesterday, someone said they really wanted to know about my childhood and immediately I imagined myself bleeding onto the page.  To go back there requires more blood to travel, than I want to admit.  Honestly, I’ve tried to write about it in different ways, but it becomes too difficult and I quit before it takes me over.  I’m not sure anyone would want to read any of that and I’m not sure I’d like to write it.      

Now, I am sitting here trying to finish my tea and thinking about what really started my writing habits in the first place: struggles.  No internet, no cell phone/service, and lonely spring days in High School.  I had a lot to work through with only a pen and a notebook.  It’s funny how it all comes full circle.