At the hockey game, I felt compelled to write the quirks of the guy seated next to me. “Didn’t practice the power kills this week, did we boys?” But I didn’t, and I don’t know why.
I deny myself in posts. I shut down unworthy thoughts and feelings and then wish I hadn’t. My journey to where I am today has value, and just because I haven’t “arrived” in certain areas doesn’t mean it’s not worth sharing.
I learn quickly, just like everyone else, when talked to and treated with respect.
I shaved a mustache full of armpit hair. I don’t know why clogging the Gillette with one swipe surprised me, but it did. Don’t be concerned, I’ve simply been growing my winter coat is all
Parenting is going to be the death of me.
I am at the trudge forward time in my writing. A feeling that’s like carrying a dead body; it leaves my muscles burning, sucking down air, doubled over, and done.
I hate this feeling. It’s one I smoke weed or drink or eat chocolate to escape. It’s a helplessness that says no matter how hard I try, I can’t escape it.
I am not suicidal and haven’t had thoughts of that nature for a couple of years. That said, it’s a feeling I’d like to escape for good.
I may have a drink. Or rather, I will try to be with this feeling to better understand it.
I’m aware of the time; 1030pm. I have a daughter that is wailing out of an inability to sleep. Dave is with her, but I’d like to help if possible.
I’ll pick up where I left off tomorrow. Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 