How’s That For Writer’s Block

It’s not that I’m bored and need something to do or that I have all this time on my hands so I might as well write. I don’t have time. I’m working from home, I’m taking care of two children, I’ve got the functional depression and anxiety always working in the background along with that inner voice leftover from a lonely childhood telling me I’m lazy and stupid and such a disappointment to everyone who couldn’t control me.

I can’t write. I can’t concentrate long enough to read through whole emails, never mind construct anything of value without reading the same five words over and over–again, over and over because of another interruption, again over and over because of the screaming child, the whiny child, the husband whose thoughts burst out of his face without rhyme or reason (or fucking context) but I have to stop what I’m doing and unravel whatever failure of communication is coming frantically my way.

I read it again to try to remember what I was just thinking about, what I was trying to say myself, my own thoughts so jumbled by the intrusion of everyone else’s in my house, all trapped here together, no childcare, no distraction, no school, no playground. I’ve got to keep all of it together, not just my own thoughts but theirs as well. And I’ve got to stay on top of work–all those adult professionals who can’t ask for what they need or tell me what they want, just complain when their needs aren’t met not unlike my whiny son or screaming daughter.

When did the burden of communication fall completely on me? Why is it my job to untangle the old jewelry drawer of mixed messages and nonverbal cues to make sense of all of this? I want to speak another language like my in-laws so I can pretend I don’t understand and walk away. Leave them to their own devices. Focus on the thoughts in my head for once. Try like hell to write them down.

I don’t want to write to pass the time. I want to write to remember who I am, how I think, what I need without the constant noise of everyone else’s incomplete thoughts and inadequate relay. I want to help. I want everyone to be ok. But I also want to be included in the concept of “everyone”.

I can’t write but in bits and pieces. I can’t remember where I left off. I feel like my own words are an echo of everyone else’s and I can’t separate me from the voices in my head.

I can’t fucking concentrate. I can’t fucking read. I can’t fucking write. I’m playing stupid games on my cell phone to drown it all out. I’ve built a beautiful house in a digital world by matching colorful pictures and that’s all I have to show for my time.

Apparently Suffering is Not a Virtue?

I’m reading Paulo Coelho’s Manuscript Found in Accra which is the preachings of some dude to a city full of people the night before they’re invaded.

It’s a mood. It’s my current mood. I wake up every day and remind myself that I am safe in my home with my children and husband, I don’t need to go any further than my own backyard, and I miraculously still have a day job (although… that’s a double-edged sword of a stabby murdering miracle) and that there’s no need to panic.

Then I have several meltdowns to match my children’s several meltdowns before we stay up too late watching heart-warming family films on Disney+ so we can all sleep with only minor nightmares.

What a time to be alive!