I haven’t posted in ages because, well, for one, I’m not sure what to say. There’s so much going on in our world, and most of the things I post about are very much centered on my individual life and struggles, and realistically, they feel fairly minor compared to the social injustices of America now.

For two, I’m struggling. I feel like I’m in this limbo of sorts. I don’t know what’s going to happen in August for school: I don’t know if I should be preparing online lessons or getting my room set up. I feel like I’ve been home for ages, I feel like my children have been home with me for longer than that. I’m overwhelmed, exhausted, and frustrated. I’ve yelled at my family before six the past two days–yes, as in six in the morning.

So, I’ve had a mental block of sorts. It feels self-indulgent to post about the things I have going on in a world where there’s so many things wrong, and by most people’s standards, I’ve got it pretty well: food on my table, roof over my head, safety.

And I do.

But, I’ve also got this overwhelming sense of loneliness, of loss, of what ifs. I feel like an outsider in my community, my state, my family. For my political views, because my mental illness makes everything feel bigger or worse than it is, because I’ve been locked in my house with my kids for two months.

I find myself daydreaming frequently about a life much different than the one I live. One where I’m single, one where I live in a more open minded community, one where I don’t have the high stakes, high pressure job that I do.

I tell myself it’s normal, and I think it is. Stress has a weird way of making us nostalgic. In this case, nostalgic for a life I wanted: city living, different responsibilities, less small town, less safe options.

I wouldn’t pick up and leave my family. I realize how lucky I am to have what I do. The security, the good man, the beautiful, healthy kids.

But these thoughts plague me. The what ifs in life. The why isn’t my life like I planned. Why do I feel like an outsider all the time, in every situation. Like my skin doesn’t fit quite right. Like I’m not supposed to be here: like I’m supposed to be somewhere else. Someone else.

Now, logically and rationally, I know that this is likely in part because of the current world situation and the fact that I–like so many people–have been at home with too much time on my hands and too little stimulation for too long. And part of it, if you buy into this kind of thing, is probably my Sagittarius nature.

I feel blocked in. Fenced. I’ve had writer’s block because of it. I’ve stepped on seven million blocks in the past month. I’ve walked around my block too many times to count.

Maybe I’m on the starting blocks for something new.


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