Distracting Sobriety – Sunday November 14th

I’m still stuck, but I’m determined to inch forward. I keep going to the gym, I keep writing, I keep getting out of bed everyday. I can’t remember sometimes if this is how my life always was. Well that’s not really true, because I remember I used to think I was pretty funny. It was a vanity actually.

I have graduated from always wanting to talk about how my grief to always wanting to talk about my minor accomplishments. I brag loudly, braying about my exercises and successful days at work. My old self winces at my child-like need for soothing praise. Is that different than how I used to be?

I feel like I’m trying to squint my way past Christmas. Every time someone brings it up I act like I don’t speak English. I can’t stand that it’s right around the corner, and I’m pretty sure this is not different than how I used to be. Or at least I can’t remember a time recently when I wasn’t dreading Christmas.

I keep telling myself that this blog is keeping my pain frustratingly raw. Many days I sit down and want to chatter about what I did over the weekend or something I’m looking forward to. But the easiest thing to write about is how I feel; that’s what bubbles up the fastest. Now I’m trying to write a book and am finding that I can’t write about myself anymore. If I don’t turn this into a work of fiction it really will be a laundry list of my shifting emotional state. Bore. I want to write a story.

It really feels irresponsible to be trying to bury myself in writing and not be smoking cigarettes. My desk is disturbingly ash free. There is not even a greasy glass of red wine or a can of beer to urge on my creativity and fuel some self-loathing. F*cking anti-depressents and a glass of water. That is what I am reduced to. It should be illegal to try and write under the influence of anti-depressents.