Biting Bullets

Here's my second attempt to write an honest reflection.

It took me five months to hit 'publish' on my last birthday post. I didn't bother writing a NYR post this year. Those are usually the two posts per year that I look forward to the most. As a 'goal-oriented person' (as my mom calls me), I always looked forward to the new year because it was a perfect time to look forward and ask, "what next? I'm so excited!" My birthday conveniently comes a half year later, when I'm able to look at the my progress in the year so far and even reflect back to my previous birthday.

In between, I would write and ramble about damn near anything because it felt good to express myself, to get my thoughts on "paper", to turn over every rock in every corner of my mind, to understand myself better, to create an identity for myself, and hey, maybe even flaunt myself a bit for whomever was out there reading my blog.

Then... 2018 hit me like a truck. Or did it? Maybe my bucket was filling over the years. Maybe I was walking around with a full bucket for decades. I'm not sure. I do know that whereas I used to write in a journal every single night before bed, I suddenly stopped. Whereas I used to relish in times that I could hole up in the apartment and blog for hours, I abandoned self-reflective writing completely. I didn't want to face my thoughts any more. I didn't want to relive my days. I wanted to forget whatever happened that day. I woke up thinking, "I can't wait to go back to bed tonight." I drove to work thinking, "let's get this over with." I ended my evenings with replies to "how was your day?" with "I don't know, I don't remember."

Doctors, therapy, self care, leaning on an empathetic audience, a change of environment, cutting toxicity out of my life have been ladders out of a deep pit. To say that I'm seeing the light would be an overstatement; disillusionment is keeping my light dim.

I'm planting seeds of productive thoughtlines in my psyche. I'm processing grief and the reality of loss and death. I'm confronting the humanity of mortality and the fear of loss and grief and death.

How was I once so goal driven? I believed anything and everything was possible. I believed that I had a whole lifetime on earth--and that my loved ones has whole lifetimes on earth--to live out our dreams. There were absolutely no "but what if..?"'s. Whatever I wanted, I set out to attain it.

I'm brave enough to admit that I have dreamer's block right now. I want to type out my dreams like I once did, but would I be setting myself up for heart crushing disappointment? If I hold no expectations, then perhaps I would only be met with tempered, pleasant surprise as one day leads to another and another. I try to pretend that my future is open and limitless, like I once believed, but I retract with fear that it will can all be taken away with one catastrophic swipe. A missed stop sign. A stray bullet. A careless, fleeting moment.