It's official. I can't write. No, I don't mean I am a bad writer (although, I'm pretty sure I am), I only mean I have nothing left inside of me. I've never claimed to be a professional, just an amateur whose only outlet for pain has always been pen to paper; or fingers to keyboard.
I go to bed at night with a billion topics, no, not literally, and come the next morning, I can't remember anything that was swirling around in my little brain. Yes, I have thought of keeping a tablet handy, but when I am falling asleep, I really don't want to jump awake to write crap down. Call me crazy, but in that threshold between half-asleep/half-awake, I'd rather drift off.
Once the sun rises and a new day begins, I am empty. The toddler is now in daycare, so I have tons of free time to write at leisure, but the gas tank is on fumes. It's not writer's block, for I am no writer. Am I pain-free? No, that can't possibly be it, for I face the same issues that I have faced since my teen years, just new ones added. Have I lost the ability to draw on that pain? Possibly. It's more likely that I am maturing (ick) and don't feel the need to share my every thought any longer.
I have noticed a very big difference in my personality. I have withdrawn; from people, from places, from everything on this big blue ball. The social butterfly has reverted into her cocoon. It's happier here. I don't get let down by people. I don't have to trust anyone. I don't have to rely on false comfort. I have built my world and it is just fine by me. The more I hide, the more my energy returns, the better I feel. I keep a very tight circle of friends that I communicate with often, and trust them with my life. Others have fallen by the wayside, others (once I was declared cancer-free) felt no need to be in my life. I am glad that my illness gave you purpose. I gave me a purpose too, it allowed me to rip out the weeds from the roses in my life.
There is a whole other group of people that give me more than imagined, but yet, I hide from them as well. You would think that unicorns could stick together, but alas, I am drifting to another part of the rainbow. No, you WON'T get this reference unless you are a unicorn as well. I think my horn snapped off and now I'm just a regular horse.
This is not a pity-post. Don't even go there. It appears I was able to write about NOT being able to write. Oh, the irony.
One day I hope to join you in your world once more. For now, I gladly embrace my gilded cage. I am untouchable. I am healing. I am being me.
