“Why did you put yourself out there?” I say to myself. It’s one of my harsh tones. My scolding voice. It swears without swearing. Implies insulting putdowns without actually articulating them — which is more insulting on a certain level, because it forces me to mentally imagine what I’m not saying.
Here are 4 reasons why it could be hard to write, even if you have the time and really want to.
When it comes to taking on new obligations, I plan for the rainy days, not sunny ones.
My least favorite dating scenario is when I’m not feeling it and the other person is, and I have to tell them — and they flip out on me.
It took years, but the unthinkable happened: I learned to hate the things about me I once loved. I learned to cringe at the parts of me that made me soar. Made me feel alive.
It’s weird these days. Sometimes I feel like a stranger to myself. In a few hours, I’m going to do something I promised I’d do. Do I feel like doing it? No, not at all.
I’m so glad I stuck with you and so glad I stuck with us. I’m glad that I could see what we could become and that we not only got there with time — but exceeded my expectations.
You’re causing a stir in the kitchen. Looking for spices in our cabinets. To be fair to you, we don’t exactly have the ideal setup for retrieving spices. We have a lot of seasoning options, and they’re tucked away rather haphazardly, with the containers all different sizes and shoved basically anywhere that they’ll fit.
I can still remember the first time someone complimented me on one of my online essays.
Obviously you’re a great writer, the comment said.
And I remember my reaction too. “Obviously? Obviously? It’s not obvious to me.”
Having been raised on Disney movies, I was told the following, or a variant, over and over again: Believing in yourself is magic. All you have to do is believe and you will succeed. Just be yourself. And believe in yourself! That’s where your power is.
Oh boy.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m a mess. The last few years have been really hard.”
It’s so easy to become too focused on yourself — to the point where you shut out the rest of the world.
Today I cried because the tip of my right shoe split open. My reaction took me by surprise. Wasn’t expecting that.
If you’re quiet and/or kind, manipulative folks will presume you’re weak willed. Easy to manipulate. To push around. To control.
This is a big mistake they make.
“What are you doing with that?” I ask my partner.
He gives me an incredulous look. “I’m going to dust.” The incredulity is understandable. He’s holding a duster, after all. What did I expect? That he was prepping for his worldwide debut into janitorial cosplay?
If Buddy the cockatiel can find a new normal in the face of major loss, so can I.
At that moment, I’m swept away by the most powerful emotion. It’s like we time traveled together to a stop that meant a lot to me.
I’m very unlikely to worry about defending myself against baseless attacks. Instead, I focus more on moving forward and making more things I’d like to see in the world.
Stubbornness can look an awful lot like self-love from the outside looking in… but feel completely different.
It’s funny, isn’t it? How the people who are best on their feet, who really don’t need to prepare, are often the ones with all the anxiety going into a conflict.
Similarly, I love old conversations. Rehashing memories with someone else who was there with me.
We don’t talk enough about the importance of recommitment.
When do you decide someone’s a hopeless case?” she says. She’s been describing a troubling pattern of mistreatment and then apology with her and another person. It’s been going on a long time. She’s very unhappy. And while she’s an optimist, she just isn’t seeing much improvement. Instead, the apologies seem more like placation. Smoothing over. With no intention to really change.
And just like that, I wrote, after several seasons of unrelenting, crushing grief and depression, I am finally getting somewhere.
I still don’t know where I’m going, but there’s movement.
I fear commitment. I do. And not because I can’t commit. I certainly can. It’s because I take it seriously.
In my dreams, you realize how great you are. You finally stop arguing with me — and the rest of the world — and you accept that you’re good, that you’re loved, that you matter.
I look forward to my alone time now… and thankfully I can make it materialize when the world seems to be too much.
Something happenstance can become expected by someone else, which can result in unexpected consequences.
I haven’t broken that trust I’ve started to extend myself. And I think I know why: It’s because I’m not focused on providing as much rest as possible. No, instead, I’m focused on my overall well-being.
“If you really loved me, you’d just know,” she says. And it’s then I know it’s over. That we won’t make it very much longer.
I’m watching you fight a bully. And it takes everything I have to not step in and fight on your behalf. But I do it for a simple reason: You asked me not to intervene.
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