I told myself I wouldn’t write because I didn’t have anything worth saying. I told myself that writing to release the frustration and anger I’m feeling wouldn’t help a damn bit. Instead, I filled my time scrolling through social media and fuming, yet, here I am.

I told myself writing doesn’t help anything. All afternoon I’ve been dealing with teachers who have forgotten what it’s like to be six, teachers who don’t understand that it’s not always the child with the issue, sometimes it’s the teacher’s teaching style, teachers who say they don’t expect a solution from you, but that they “just wanted to let you know,” teachers who call you at the most inopportune times and have your anxiety at a high for the rest of the afternoon.

I told myself I wouldn’t write about the exhaustion, lord the exhaustion never leaves me. I told myself I wouldn’t tell you how after I came home from work I lay in bed for two hours doing nothing more than staring at the wall because I didn’t have the energy to do anything else. About how I have a sink full of dishes, a cluttered dining room table, a living room that is in shambles despite the fact that I’m never in it. I told myself I wouldn’t tell you how much I detest cleaning because it’s a never ending job, one that is thankless and, well, exhausting. These are my duties and most of the time I am thankful to have the opportunity to fulfill them. Most of the time. But not today.

I told myself I wouldn’t tell you how the ocean has been in the back of my mind all day, the whisper of the waves, the cries of the seagulls, the smooth and silky sand between my toes. It’s been more than eleven years since I’ve last set foot on the beach, who knows, maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe I’ve forgotten what it feels like, what it sounds like, what it smells like. It doesn’t much matter because I had already told myself I wouldn’t ramble on to you about it.

I told myself I wouldn’t write about kindred spirits, about finding people who understand and accept you because they are just like you. People who laugh at things similar to you, smile at the same things, cry and worry about the same things. People who have the same favorite books as you, people who think of you as they’re cleaning out their old apartments because they’re moving in with a new partner and know that you could use the extra dishes, people who order breakfast for the rest of your group of friends but remember to buy you something as well, even though they know you won’t be around until a little later. I told myself I wouldn’t bore you with these things, these things that warm my insides.

I told myself I wouldn’t tell you yet again about my dream to be published one day, and about how I’m worried about taking that step because I worry that my words don’t matter, that no one reads anymore anyways, that everyone is already doing it and how big of a difference could my words make in a world that is already inundated with them. About how it’s not so much the desire for my words to become a bestseller, only that I don’t want to be forgotten when I finally make it to where I’m going and leaving some words behind seems a good way to ensure I’m not. Forgotten, I mean. I told myself I wouldn’t tell you how much I adore reading the words of my favorite bloggers, sometimes reading and re-reading some of my favorite posts that I have bookmarked because they make my heart smile, they make me cry, they make me feel. I told myself it wouldn’t matter if you knew it.

I told myself I wouldn’t write today, about all of these things and about none of these things. I told myself the words didn’t matter, that they wouldn’t come, that no one would read them, that I wouldn’t feel better even after I had written them. I told myself all of these things and quite a bit more, and still, I wrote. Also I told myself the picture I chose to go along with this writing has absolutely nothing to do with my words but it’s cute.



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