write.

Another day, another angsty post that’s actually way more angsty than I am truly feeling. Hey, emotional writing pours out of me. Writing “I had a good day, and got a bagel, and did some stretching, and reached 25K on my NaNoWriMo and it’s only day 6, and I’m not even 1/5th through my story” just doesn’t make for a good Fetlife post yanno.

And in many ways, unless it’s a truly ~beautiful~ moment, writing happy stuff kind of feels… braggy. Like, hey, I’ve had a week of amazing things, and I had one hour of sadness, so I wrote about that. It’s like Facebook. We see people’s highlight reels and none of the bad bits. Well, Fetlife, I swear, seems to be where I put the bad bits, but none of the good bits. Soz team.

I’ve been tracking my moods in an app for 19 days now, and I’ve only had one day where I’ve marked it as bad. I don’t really get bad days. I get bad hours. Such is the nature of a life with chronic mood swings. But it’s like the weather in Melbourne… (or so they used to joke – I’ve lived in Melbourne and would like to alter the saying – it’s perpetually shit down there!) – if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes and it’ll change. My moods are the same. Every couple of hours and it’s a new one.

At least it’s never boring.

I’d been having major existential crises. The realisation that someone who has become a core part of my being is leaving has left me reeling. Who am I outside of him? I used to know… but now I don’t. Or didn’t. Still don’t, but I’m figuring it out.

It was the realisation that I was alone, and might always be as such, and also that everything I had built my life around was going to change. It was pretty distressing. I thought I had dreams and goals, but actually, those were all framed around what he wanted. He never wanted me to, but I shaped my thoughts, hopes, values around what I thought he would want in a partner. The other thing is that I didn’t mean to. It’s just a bad habit of mine. A loose sense of self-identity lends itself to that, it seems.

So a few weeks back, I got inebriated. I mourned the relationship. I grieved for what felt like years of hurt. I cried and cried and cried. And above all, I learned some very vital things about myself.

And a few days later… the clouds finally started to clear. And I knew what I wanted.

It’s like something broke open in my brain. Despite writing on Fetlife a lot over the past few years, I haven’t written in years. Not fiction, anyway. The last time I wrote fiction was over four years ago.

And seven days ago, I decided I wanted to participate in NaNoWriMo again. It’s day 6. I’ve just cracked 25K. I know there are people who get this done faster. I do, however, think a girls gotta give herself credit. I work 2 jobs. I’ve socialised three times in those six days. Done obligatory family time. Had three dates. Barely slept. Not exercised. But by god I’ve written. And I would have written more, if my hands and shoulders and back and neck were cramping.

I tried to type cloud before and typed clowd twice.

I feel like I’ve rediscovered a part of me I’d feared had been gone forever.

And it feels good. It feels safe. Because I have shitty self-esteem and writing is one of the few things I’ve actually thought I’d not-sucked-at. And maybe it’s okay to cling to the things that make us happy, and feel good about ourselves. Maybe it’s okay to recognise our own “good"ness.

I guess I just feel like I’ve come home to myself.