Aug. 16th, 2020

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Aug. 16th, 2020 11:46 pm
Over the last few weeks I've started to question the wisdom of writing something every day. I mean, I questioned it at the beginning of quarantine and lockdown, when I was having days so bad I didn't want to remember them. I was in such grief and fear that all I could remember, even in my dreams, where other times I had felt so alone and scared and mourning and powerless. And even then I found something -- almost always something other than that -- to write about. I doggedly recorded weeks and months where I didn't have most of the kinds of things I used to write about: no nights in pubs with bi people, no little holidays, no visit from my parents, no graduation, no Prides this summer.

And I'm not doing particularly badly lately -- I'm way past that initial shock and horror -- I'm not feeling particularly awful mental-health-wise (though I'm not expecting much of myself there so that maybe isn't saying much). Nor am I particularly mentally healthy though: I'm still dealing with very high amounts of anxiety and despair. But if I'm not doing awful or great, if I'm bimbling along about as well as I have been, I don't know why I'm so resistant to writing recently, my head so completely empty of thoughts I've had or things I've done that I want to write about.

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the cosmolinguist

June 2025

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