But I thought it would take me some time to discover how it might affect me and how it would affect what I write here. To my surprise, it hasn’t taken any time at all. This changes things.
Twice today, I sat down to write… but I couldn’t finish.
The first time, I wanted to finish my thoughts about a problem J and I had a few weeks ago. It was something we already talked about and moved past, but I still had some thinking to do and was finally ready to articulate those thoughts. But when I sat down and started writing, it felt as if I was voicing my disappointment to him all over again. In some way, the thought of posting made me feel as if I was being unfair and oddly passive-aggressive.
The second time I sat down to write, I wanted to say something about a more recent situation where I asked him for help. I wanted to write about how he came through for me and how much it meant. Of course, I already told him how much it meant to me, but repeating it here with as much emo-effusive warmth, gratitude, and love as I’m brimming with feels downright pathetic. It’s not like I’m love-starved or anything, but perhaps little things do mean more to me than they should?
This is the third time I’ve sat down to write, and it seems all I’m comfortable writing about is how I’m having trouble writing.