I don’t really process my life unless I’m writing.
Writing about Gram was necessary that day last March. Writing and sending it out into the world gave me space to grieve. Gave me a place where others said things like, “I’ve been there, too” and “thinking about you.”
But since then, I have sort of ignored the processing part of my life. I still write notes and scribble ideas, but I haven’t sat and really torn it all apart like I used to do every couple days. I’m just going forward and holding it together and hoping my anxiety won’t bubble over at the wrong time.
So far, so good.
Today a customer at the cafe asked how I was doing and I said, “Oh I’m not sure. I haven’t had a minute to think about it. It’s probably good—seems ok. Yeah. I think I’m good.”
That’s not the right answer to that question. I THINK I’M GOOD.
I’m good. Really. Probably.
I’m busy. Busy = good.
These days I’m working 50ish hours a week and spending my free time making cheese and attempting to make my life plastic-free and mostly zero waste because I am too ambitious for my own good.
This is the way I make my brain busy so I don’t think too hard about all the sadness and fear I’ve managed to shove deep down under all my humor and strange hobbies. It’s threatening to come up, but I still have twenty more skills I plan to master to keep my brain busy. So no worries.
Also, I’m fine. Duh.
Next time I write it’s going to be more about cheese and less about anxiety. Ok? Ok.