I have literally no wisdom, research or wit here. Honestly, I thought that without the pressure of work I would blog more, but my brain has been mush. Figuratively, of course, though between headaches and fogginess I wouldn’t be surprised if it was literally mush too.

I have this concept in my head that everything I write has to be just that, well thought out, well researched, or damn it, at least funny. And I suppose that stops me quite often from writing anything at all, as if I have to write for a critical audience.

The truth is, I’m just a real person with real stress and fears and disabilities. My current limits frustrate me much of the time. My inability to do much at all many days. The sharpness my mind used to have that’s gone now. The anxiety that’s crept into my psyche recently – anxiety that I have had under control so well, and I don’t know if it’s winter, (cause my SAD seems to get worse every year), or if this is something more permanent that I need treatment for.

I don’t feel a hell of a lot of control over my mood lately and I hate that feeling with a burning passion. I don’t feel a hell of a lot of control over my life, period, full stop and whatnot. That’s always been one of the worst feelings in the universe to me, helplessness. Having to depend on others more than myself. Because fuck, yo, I was STRONG and SMART and CAPABLE. That’s who I was. That’s the identity I still crave, but I’ve lost it, and I struggle to come to terms with that.

Right now I’m sitting in my car, in the parking lot of a shopping plaza, needing a break from home. I’m slowly getting colder since, well, it’s Northern Canada and I hate to idle. Feeling sorry for myself. That’s another thing I hate to do, bee tee dubs, but I entitle myself to it every so often. At least I’m not crying, cause I hate that even more.

I’m reminding myself of all the things I have to be grateful for, and there are indeed many things. There are also a lot of uncertainties and my drift between general malaise and panic.

I keep missing therapy because I’m tired and forgetful. This is probably when I need it most. It feels very subconsciously self-destructive.

I’m 39, and I feel this sense of existential dread… and I wonder whether this is what midlife crisis feels like. And aren’t I too young for that?

I have some big decisions to make. Big changes are happening whether I like it or not, and I’m floundering with trying to figure out how I change accordingly. My oldest son is finishing high school, and leaving the province in the fall – a move he has told me he was set on for a few years now, but now that it’s looming… it’s upsetting. All of my siblings live in the area he’s moving to and he will stay with my sister. I know he will be in good hands. But now I’m faced with leaving the province I love to be close to the people I love, or staying and missing out. I don’t love either option, but I have to choose.

So there’s one forced decision, the only one I feel comfortable writing about.

I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t know whether my life matters. Am I making a difference at least, or am I just existing? Am I just a drain or a burden? Rationally, I think of course I’m something for some someones, but… I’m not feeling it.

Here it is, guys and gals, my first blog post since October. It’s not great, but I don’t feel great, so at least it’s honest.

It’s a weight off my chest, at least.

Exit stage left.