If you’re a blogger or a writer, you probably have the same affliction that I do: bunches and bunches of half-written posts (or less than half-written, maybe even just a sentence, a snippet, a couple of words) just sitting there in your Drafts folder, waiting for you to actually write them. (At the moment I have 132 Draft posts, including the 3 renditions of this very post that you are reading.) This is both good and bad…I’ve got a lot of writing nuggets sitting there for inspiration; but on the other hand, the longer it gets since the time of the event/thought and the actual writing of it, the less…intense it is. It loses color, immediacy, authenticity.
Plus, I just plain forget shit.
For instance, I have a note about Ad fucking me in the ass while W lay next to us, sleeping. I recall that there was something oddly sweet and endearing about it, as well as just plain hot, but…more than that, I can’t recall. And I really had stuff to write about it (besides just the sex part.) I really wanted to share things about that incident…things that I have, sadly, forgotten. What exactly did I find important about it? Why did I think it warranted its own post?
We may never know.
Lately, as I mentioned, I have been also afflicted with an inability to write. Or a lack of desire. I’m not sure which. I am just not feeling it, yanno? I thought I’d give myself some time and space, and yes, that is necessary and acceptable at times. But then this morning, lying awake at 3am, I realized that it may not actually be an inability to write. “Lack of desire” comes closer to what I am feeling – and I realized that by recognizing that this depiction could describe how I am feeling in general, about everything.
It’s been a rough two weeks. Even with last weekend’s sexiness (yes, apparently two cocks can fit in one hole), these two weeks have been tumultuous emotionally and stressful professionally, and I feel like I’ve just…shut down in a way. I feel numb, all my lovely, usually-sparking-99%-of-the-time nerve endings deadened. I can barely force myself to pretend interest in anything at all right now, much less actually feel an interest.
Or maybe that’s just a reaction to things not being quite back to normal between W and I, as we try to return to normalcy after our recent issues. I keep waiting for a sign from him that he’s feeling better…that things are back the way they were (ok, that he wants to tie me up and hurt me!) but he needs time/space for his own confidence and desire to return, too, so I don’t want to ask or push. I know he’ll be there again, we’ll get there again, but meanwhile, as I try to cope with my own feelings/still-raw emotions, I feel myself withdrawing, protecting myself. I don’t think I could take rejection at this point, even if it was only temporary, even knowing that it was just him needing that time/space, so I hold back, afraid to even want anything, much less suggest it. In a way, I am stuck in limbo, waiting, curbing and cauterizing my own desire.
Is it any wonder I can’t seem to recall the urgency I originally felt in any of the writing topics in my Draft posts?
Boy, that’s a bunch of poor-little-me-whiney-ass shit, isn’t it?
I really hate to be that girl.
So I’m not going to be. There’s something written somewhere about smiling. Even if you are depressed, if you force yourself to smile–fake it if you have to–eventually, you actually feel happier. Some weird brain chemistry thing. (Wait, I found it! Smile! It Could Make You Happier. God, I love the internet.) Your brain thinks, because you are smiling, that you really must be happy, and it becomes the truth. Fake it til it’s true, right? Or something like that. I don’t know about all that, truthfully, but I am tired of wallowing in this BLAH place. So…for the next week or so I am going to challenge myself to write and/or finish one of my Draft posts each day.
Can it be done? Will it help? Who cares: I’ll be writing again, and that’s what matters.
First up (for Monday–tomorrow I’m posting a Sinful Sunday): Innies, Outies and Three-Way Communication.