Is

I cannot seem to finish a decent post.

I’ve tried outlining before I begin to write.

I’ve tried using word maps.

I’ve tried just furiously typing whatever pops into my head, as I hunch over the laptop in a frenzied state of frustration. (I’m saving those keyboard rants as drafts… but I can say with 75% certainty that there is little hope of me ever revisiting them in the future.)

Nothing is working.

I wish I were more like my dear friend, Ashley. She writes the fantastic Mental Health @ Home blog that I adore, and never seems to be at a loss for words.

I, on the other hand, can’t even seem to get going with prompts.

I am still reading that damnable book for an hour each day. I’m taking care of the ice cube trays in the freezer each morning. Today, I even managed a shower upon awakening (well, relative to waking).

I am desperately clinging to the wise words of my husband, “You can only do what you can do, and that’s okay… no matter how much or how little that happens to be. It’s not good, nor bad. It just is.”

Okay, seriously. My brain has stalled and I’m publishing non-sense. Hop over to Ashley’s site. (Again, that’s Mental Health @ Home.) She’s a phenomenal writer. Whereas today, I just is.

Good Grief, Indeed.

Well, friends… I wrote for awhile this morning – some of it good, some of it not – and then got stuck in the mire of the not so good. (I don’t know why I was writing what I was writing, nor who in the hell I was writing it for.) I took a break, forced myself to eat something, turned on a favorite, familiar drama series, and did some coloring on my phone. The goal was to relax, but I couldn’t.

I kept thinking about having to read Sometimes I Act Crazy. I heard a timer ticking in my head (though my timer doesn’t actually tick), and couldn’t breathe. “F*ck it!” I thought. “I am not attempting that sh*t again! It’s dark and frightening… and there ain’t no light at the end of that tunnel!”

But then, seconds before the cement dried on my resolution to quit, I decided to just suck it the f*ck up and get it over with; thinking with mock enthusiasm, “There is no fear greater than the fear that lives inside your batsh*t crazy head.”

I might have over-estimated the fear that lives inside my head; because thus far, this book is still pretty damn frightening. I’m into Chapter Two… and it’s still a very scary text about a horrifying mental affliction. One I may never control, nor ever escape. Good grief, indeed.