I lost it in July. Or maybe I didn’t lose it. Maybe I left it somewhere on purpose.
The it I’m referring to is my discipline, specifically my discipline to write, but it leaked into other areas of my life too.
I got tired. I became increasingly anxious, and I dulled the pain as I parted my lips for love of food and insistent cups of coffee and Xanax. I stole every nap I could, and rested my face against the cool of my pillow, choking on tears and Hail Marys.
I’m not sure if you’ll understand, but sometimes the surrender and the fight feel exactly the same. Do you know what I mean?
It is a bad habit of mine, to stop writing when I get depressed. This cycle has long repeated itself. In fact, the consistency of this cycle eventually lead my counselor to begin to ask me if I had been writing when I would arrive at his office complaining of a terrible bout with depression, and I would leave his office with a promise to finish that short story or that poem or to write another chapter in my book. Sometimes I kept the promise and sometimes I didn’t.
The past couple months haven’t been filled with many posts here. I’m not sure whether I’m sorry for that or not, but I am sorry that my writing routine was crumpled and tossed aside. I need to write whether I publish my scribble or whether it rests in pages of half-filled journals.
All this is to say that I might be blowing up your inbox and Twitter feed with new posts this week and in the weeks to come. I’m grateful to everyone who has held me in prayer and in their heart over the past few months; I’ve felt you around me and for me, so thank you.
I’ve watched back to back episodes of Homeland, and I’ve become strangely addicted to Downton Abbey; my husband now refers to the show as “Natalie’s bedtime stories”. I’ve even arrived late to the Breaking Bad party, but I miss it here. Pressing play isn’t as life giving as pressing my pen to the paper. This blog has become my second home, a home for my truths, and I’d like to spend a little bit more time here.
You’ve been warned.