Off My Chest

(Move along if you wish to avoid maddeningly-vague, angst-wridden, self-directed diatribes.)

I have an amazing gift for self-sabotague.

No, really. If I was a corporate entity, I’d be rifling through my filing cabinets trying to steal information on the impending merger to sell. If I was a government agency, I’d be sending a double agent to steal the codes for the missile launchers. If I was the programer, I’d be the one laying down the virus in the same lines of code.

The goal this weekend was to write 5K on one of these two days off. And what do I do instead?

Blew yesterday off entirely.

I dithered in the morning, half procrastinating, half trying to decide how to spend the coin of my day. In the end, I left far too early with the intention of returning home before going out and then ended up having my plans changed mid-stream so that I was out all afternoon and then into early evening. There was a glorious sit-down in the sun-washed lounge area of the library that was pleasant and restful. I should have just gone home after that, turned my computer on, got to writing. But that’s not what I did.

The rest of my day? Bittersweet.

A cliche. A safe word. Game’s over.  Untie me now. Uncle. Except I’m the one holding me down, crying, “Fool! Idiot!”

It’s been a YEAR for fucks sakes. Get over it. Everyone else has.

Why is it so easy for everyone else? Why can’t it be easy for me?

(I grieve, but I never let go. Please, someone, teach me how.)


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