Back Again.

I wish I could explain how scary it is, sitting here, watching my cursor blink repeatedly between words. I constantly hear in my head all the words I have to offer, but sitting down to task takes much more than time, it takes courage I seldom have. It's just like walking, babe, one foot in front of the other, I try to self-soothe because self-soothing is comforting. Hesitation has become my closest writing companion.

Writing is hard to walk away from, but it's harder to return to, in my opinion.

Just like life, right?

Goodbyes are hard, but returning to what you walked away from, or allowing whomever walked away from you back into your life- that's the really hard thing.

Tonight I thought about running away from home.

(Spoiler alert: I didn't.)

Not in the visceral sense.  I'm not a huge fan of the idea of abandoning every aspect of your life, just to feel the rush of escape. 

But I did want to just keep driving down the interstate, and leave tomorrow behind in Portland.  I miss the coast, I miss the ocean.  I had even already planned what I was going to say to my boss after not showing up to work tomorrow (it went along the lines of, it's better to ask forgiveness than permission...?) 

But then, I realized I had promised my weekend to dog-sitting for friends, and have a rodeo date with my sister on Saturday night, and my beachin'-for-the-weekend plans came to an abrupt halt.

Now my iPhone alarm for tomorrow morning reads "DON'T FORGET LIBBY!"

So don't worry, Libs, I won't forget you, or that I must stop on my way to work to feed you and give you fresh water.  I promise.

Now I'm lying in my bed, with my dog chewing aggressively on a nylabone, listening to old Jimmy Eat World and Jackson Browne songs and waiting for the half-a-lorazepam I took 20 minutes ago to kick in so I can actually get some sleep tonight.

Sleep has not been forthcoming much lately, I can't really remember a time in life when I've ever felt this tired. On average, I get about 3-4 hours of real sleep a night. The other hours are spent in a strange paralytic state in which I'm either awake, or lightly asleep, still completely aware of my surroundings, but unable to move.

Whatever is causing this lovely new development in my sleep life is probably linked to the rise in anxiety that has reached an all-time height the past few weeks.

Anxiety, sleeplessness, writing.

They're a sexy little love triangle, aren't they?

It's a funny thing, codependency.

You can't have sleeplessness without anxiety, and you can't battle exhaustion and panic without writing, because it all has to come out somehow.  I'd love to tell you that inspiration has brought me back to writing, or healing, or excitement, or determination even.

The truth is, though, that I'm going through one of those spells I used to get when my brain refuses to cope (Refuses to cope with what? you ask, Life, I mutter blankly), and everything spirals downward, fast.  What used to help back then was writing, and even without contemplating whether or not writing would be beneficial this time around, here I am. Writing it down. Because I don't have to wonder, or question, or contemplate. The reality is that writing helps. Period.

Writing and prayer and prescription drugs and clean sheets and stress-relieving lotion and real sleep and peace from the Holy Spirit that you request daily.

So here I am, lovers- back again.

Cursor blinking repeatedly, awaiting each next move.

Feels just like coming home, doesn't it?

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