I don’t like my writing tonight. It feels stale, like I’ve said the same thing too many times. I can feel myself pressing down — hard — like I’m trying to pin myself to the table and make something “better.” But it hurts. It’s pushing a tack into a wall stud instead of soft wood, that zing through the nerves when the pressure’s too much.
I feel foolish. I’m trying to get back to calm, to center, but it feels far away. I keep trying on different versions of myself — loud, funny, detached — none of them quite fit. I talk just to fill space and immediately want the sound to stop. I want everyone to be quiet, but when they are, I miss them.
I’ve been eating more than I mean to. Maybe it’s comfort, maybe it’s chaos. I notice the number on the scale shifting, and I panic a little, like a skater who suddenly remembers how thin the ice is.
It’s embarrassing to show up like this — off-balance, raw, not my best. Like realizing too late that there’s spinach in your teeth.
I get mad at myself for taking things too seriously — like this baseball game. I tell myself it’s not that deep, but I still care. I still ride the high when we win and crash when we lose. I still want to believe that joy guarantees a good outcome.
But maybe this is what being human is — this swing between wanting to care and wanting not to. Maybe nothing’s wrong with me at all. Maybe I’m just tired of being the tack and the thumb at the same time.
Good night. Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 