Tomorrow

Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day I write about how I'm starting back again. Tomorrow I write about how I start back on again month in only to fall back off again month out. It's the vicious cycle of on again off again that I know all too well, only this time it's with something far less lethal, or at least in the physical sense. It's as though there's a missing piece of my soul that is out there floating around and I can't seem to locate it however hard I try. Perhaps it is because I'm looking in all the wrong places...

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I'll write about how I finally opened up the book again and how I could barely get through one short chapter without wanting to close it so quickly. How, on the second day I was able to read through two chapters, and how on the third day I could barely remember what it was that I had read on the first and second days.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I'll write about how the attempt to get back on again frustrates me day in and day out because I know that the piece my soul misses so much can only be found if I somehow figure out a way to get back on and this time not fall off.

Getting Started: Writing

I've been wanting to start writing again for a long time. I used to do this every week to help myself sort through thoughts, feelings, etc., in hopes that doing so would help me become less complicated. Ultimately, I realized that writing, expressing, documenting...does not necessarily simplify things, but rather brings me one step closer to accepting the fact that I am complicated.

Starting is always difficult. I have a running list of things that I want...no...that I NEED to get started on. Such things include my dissertation, improving my spiritual walk, car repairs, finding opportunities to get more experience in psychological assessment, and reviving my blog. I decided to tackle the last one first. So far, I'm finding that I've been able to make it to paragraph two.

For people who like to write, the problem with not writing is that you think about writing all the time. I haven't written for a good two years now, but I've thought about writing so much so that I think I might've published an anthology of short narratives by now. Things, events happen and I think about how I would detail them, what I would say, how I might say it. My grandmother passed away a few weeks ago and though I'm a psychologist in training, soon to be expert on emotional expression, my tears could not seem to escape the blanket of suppression I threw on top of myself as I watched my father break down and cry at the sight of his deceased mother.

I've been engaged in a back and forth game of writing and not writing. If I write, I'm afraid I'll always have a whole lot of crap to sort through. If I don't write, I'll always think about writing and fear that I'm losing depth because I'm choosing to ignore the process of coming to terms with who I am. The truth is I'm not so much a happy-go-lucky person like my boyfriend. I get into ruts, become bored and restless and then somewhat depressed. I go through phases where I feel my life is meaningless and have a difficult time reconciling that feeling with my desire to really want my life to count for something more. My boyfriend tells me I need to learn to look at things the way he does--understand, accept, and stop complaining--and so I try, but most of the time I end up failing miserably. I usually end up pretending I've learned how to take his advice and then continue in the back and forth game of allowing myself to engage in the rut and trying to convince myself that I don't need to be in the rut.

At the end of the day, the question remains, what's so wrong with being a complicated person? Complications add depth and most of me is just not willing to trade my depth to become happy-go-lucky, especially since I feel I've gone through a lot of stuff, crap, to build up my depth. Doesn't God cast us into the abyss so that we can climb out only to be reminded of daylight?

Here's to writing again.