she's back?

honestly I don't know if I am and also this is darker than I intended

hey. I think it’s been four or five years since I’ve written here? a writer I know has recently left Substack, for reasons I couldn’t read all about because my brain hurts all the time and I don’t know if anyone cares that I’m here or if anyone cares about anything I write. I know, though, that I’m happier when I write.

I’m tired. not just, like, right now, but like, in life. I got an iron transfusion like a month ago (and haven’t eaten one cup of ice since - the theories are true) - but I’m not more vibrant, and I don’t know who to blame. I’m tired of my voice. I might be a little tired of being alive. Which is not me. I don’t know; I haven’t done enough yoga lately and my dog is dying and my son is getting so big that sometimes, people with little kids act like I don’t even have a legit child anymore. I wish they knew how it hurt when they did that. I wish time weren’t moving so fast and I moving slow. I wish I had believed in myself more in this life.

anyway, I’m wondering if this is a space I should inhabit again. my son is ten and my dog is still alive and I am still alive and I write myself more alive every time I sit down to it.

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I re-read some of the previous posts. they made my stomach hurt. I’m a liar. about myself. about a lot. I’m really honest too, but I’m also a liar. I have dream destinations but a human compass. I’m flawed and a failure and I don’t know how long I have to make anything beautiful. I’m sad and tired and scared of dying in silence.