I almost am not writing this.
I almost kept hitting snooze, kept cuddling up to J next to me in bed.
I almost kept lying awake, in between alarms, letting my brain swirl and being carried away by it.
I almost put off coming down to my desk and writing until this evening, until I knew for sure what I wanted to write about, until I had something to say. Yeah, for sure I’d have more clarity tonight.
I almost let a churny stomach, that I think I can attribute to stress and anxiety, send me back to bed.
But anyway, here I am, writing these words.
Even though nothing is perfect or even very good about them, about me.
Even though I’m second guessing myself and wondering what the hell I’m doing and not even sure it matters, no one would even notice.
Even though it’s not easy and it’s not even making me feel any better, and I was hoping it would make me feel better because isn’t writing supposed to help me sort out my brain.
Even though my brain is a million places, pieces, and focusing is a battle that I don’t seem to have it in me to fight.
Even though I am scared.
But here I am, writing these words.
Because I write my blog on Tuesdays. That is the routine, the promise.
Because I’m angry at the voices in my head and want to show them who’s boss.
Because I would regret it if I didn’t stick to my plan, not only because it’s a box I’d have to leave unchecked, but also because I know on some level it makes me feel better if not immediately, then (hopefully) eventually.
Because I’m tired of giving in.
Because I want my power back.