There are more reasons that I don’t write on the worst days than I realised. There is the fact that my head feels like a fuzzy, formless mess. Words elude me. Hopelessness surrounds me, and I have no means by which to express it. I feel close to collapse, on a knife’s edge, wanting to run away and sit in a weeping heap, but I look at the desperation on my husband’s face and know that I can’t leave him on his own, after a stressful day of his own, to cope with a crying baby, dirty nappy, and whining 4-year-old.
I also don’t want to share this. On the one hand it makes me feel too weak and exposed, and on the other I don’t like to put what feels like negative energy into the world. I don’t want to give these emotions the power of acknowledgement, despite my fighting talking of facing shadows.
I don’t feel strong enough.
Writing now doesn’t lift my spirits like it does on better days. It doesn’t help at all; if anything it makes me feel more miserable.
I don’t feel like I have anything to give, but here is my attempt to write on a bad day, as promised. For what it’s worth.