All the Things I Cannot Say

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(Photo: L’esprit de Solitude)

So what kind of writer do I want to be? A paid one! Besides that, though, I have no idea. The problem is I have too many ideas. I want to write about chronic illness, aging in our society, love, sex, mental illness, healthcare, veganism, all forms of social injustice, religion and politics. I want to write my memoirs, fiction, short stories, creative non-fiction essays, a one-woman play, and film a documentary. Where do I begin?

I don’t remember it being this hard when I started this blog four years ago. Of course, I was taking Effexor and, more importantly, Klonopin. I’m glad to be off of them because they’d stopped working, but I miss how I felt when they worked, especially the Klonopin. I miss being able to focus on one subject, having a mind not overwhelmed by worry and ruminations. And I miss Peggy, my therapist during the divorce years. No matter how bad things got, I knew I had my weekly appointment with her to talk it out. She was my biggest fan. She told me I could film a documentary–even said I could get the male film star I envisioned for the dream sequence I’d written! Told me I would write my memoir, act in a Shakespeare play, sing in a coffee house, travel the world, graduate from college, find healthy and long-lasting love. It was a physical pain being unable to afford seeing her anymore.

It’s isolating and lonely being a divorced older woman with no children and chronic illness. And to have lost that one person everyone should have in their life, that one person who understands you, listens, cheers you on, helps you see the good in yourself, the promise in life. Somehow I have to become that person for myself now. I’m all I have, and it scares me.

Lack of communication is unhealthy.

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