Can’t take it

Seriously. I just can’t. I’m so tired. Why does everything have to be so f*cking hard? Why do I always feel so alone? Like I’ve got no one ever to lean on or talk to or depend on? I’m just so tired of this horseshit life. I’m angry and hurt and sad and so many things all at once. In two weeks it will have been 27 years since my mom passed away. I’m gonna be brutally honest about the fact that I’m still sad and angry about that even! Like, why the hell did she have to leave us

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Losing the war

It’s getting harder to wake up each morning, yet I continue to do so for my children more than anything. They’re almost all grown. Nowhere near ready to tackle life entirely on their own quite yet. I’m growing more hopeless and tired of struggling all the time. Every day. Every single day. Why is it so hard to get by in this world? Is it because I just can’t conform to the expectations of this ridiculous society in which we exist? Is it because I am ultimately unworthy? I can’t really seem to figure it out. I’ve continued to push

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Hello, It’s Me (again)

Been a while, but it’s nice to see you again. I’m seriously not an Adele fan, but it seemed sort of amusingly fitting for the occasion! So many changes have happened in my life over the course of these last six or so months that I wouldn’t even really know where to begin. Instead, I think I’ll just pick up again as if the habitual lapse in posting was a figment of someone’s imagination. Besides, there’s so much crazy going on in the world-at-large these days that it almost feels like any of my own personal issues don’t even matter.

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W.T.F. is going on in the world today?!

Chutzpah. Merriam-Webster says it’s: supreme self-confidence: nerve, gall. I don’t have it. You know who does have it? Donald J. Trump. In spades. Outwardly anyway. I’m not sure it’s even a good trait to have in most situations. I mean, if you’re supremely self-confidant, one could argue that it works to your detriment. That one with chutzpah shuts down any naysayers and refuses to consider any alternate options or opinions. They refuse to listen, to consider, to learn and modify or adapt based on that learning. I equate it to emboldened ignorance, in a way. I am not now, nor

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Fear the Deer

Write. Just write. It doesn’t even matter what you write about or whether you have something to say. Just put some words down and see where it leads you. Getting back into the habit is a pain in the proverbial ass — really it is. Doing so with an anxiety disorder is almost hellish. Struggling over every idea, every thought, every letter of every word and worrying about whether what you’re writing will be misconstrued in some gruesome manner by some random stranger you’ve never even met nor likely ever will is completely detrimental to any and all creative processes.

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