2024

don’t ask me how I’ve been because I won’t be able to tell you; it’s not appropriate to say those things out loud.

March

I’ve been doing things – life. Commuting. Working. Talking every day. Smiling. I eat breakfast now, go to bed at a reasonable time, make small talk about the weather and my made-up weekend plans. I lie and laugh at jokes I don’t understand. I pretend to care about my co-worker’s dog. I forget names and remember faces. I’ve made two new friends - a lifeline. They know the who, what and why. I take deep breaths in the toilet stall. Pep talks in the mirror in the morning mid-week.

April

The routine helps. I don’t have to think about what to do each day. My job is repetitive. Before, I would lay in bed for hours, staring at the room and making up lists of useless tasks to do. Today, I will get dressed. Today, I will make something to eat. Today, I might even step outside. If I could go back and tell me I do all that and more, I don’t think I’d believe me.

May

My piercing is infected again; I can feel my heartbeat in my left earlobe. Every three months or so, I can be sure of that one thing. I guess it will never heal properly. Maybe I should take it out. Maybe I should give up.

June

I haven’t cried much. Only three times at work. I’ve been cheating though, falling back on old habits to keep the tears away. Looking at lights until my eyes hurt. Digging my nails into my wrist. It’s not perfect but everything is going too smoothly right now.  I’m worried, waiting for my big meltdown. Waiting to lose control.

July

My car is dirty. I visit home almost every week and drive down the unpaved, dirt roads. I miss the trees and the hills, driving with the windows down and smelling the smoky air from burning off, dodging potholes and slowing for wombats. My car sticks out against the others at my apartment – dusty, dirty, messy, cheap. All I thought about for so long was being here, out on my own, in a new place. But I’m homesick. I listen to Noah Kahan and feel nostalgic and cry. I don’t know if I’m meant to be where I am.

August

September

October

November

 
December

I haven’t written a story since January. I’m scared I never will again. My dreams feel more far away than ever. This cannot be all there is; waiting and waiting and waiting for the next thing. Floating by. The second half of this year a blur, barely remembering a week ago but I already know it’s the same as next week. I wish I could just force myself to do the things I know I want to do, know I can do. Merry Christmas. I wish I was back in March, rethinking.

free writing - monthly from march to december 2024