Today is Thursday. Today is as good a day as any to face the facts. Wouldn’t you say?
I’m in a rut, I think. And if I had to venture another guess, I’d say you already knew. Yes?
You can tell me the truth — I actually want you to tell me. Maybe it’ll snap me right out of it, once the initial sting has worn off. You could be gentle, though, when you tell me. I’d appreciate that. You could don your kid gloves for me, and in return, I could stop saturating your newsfeed.
It’s been a steady stream, I know. I apologize.
You could tell me, not unkindly, that it might be fun to try taking a picture of something else. Anything else. A wall of books. A too-cute cart. A trash can, even.
You’ll probably end up hurting my feelings anyway, but it will be okay. I’ll have some banana bread (why is mine so shiny?) and all will be forgiven/forgotten. I promise.
I don’t know what the problem is. I know I’m in this lull between staying and going, and I know life will be exciting again soon, but goodness. I feel like I’m always writing about the same things.
Good days and bad days. Loneliness. Going away and coming back and going away again. Cookies I’ve eaten (or been afraid to eat). Boys I’ve loved (or would like to love). Choices — smart and stupid. Changes — big and small.
I write about what was, what is, what might be. I write about the city, the country, the coast. I write about all the C’s and then I move right along to all the D’s: disordered eating, divorce, depression, doubt.
I write about success (or a version of it, anyway), and then I second-guess it and wish I’d never shared it. I write about what beauty looks like, and then I scratch it out and say I should be writing about what beauty feels like, instead.
I write about trying — about trying so hard. I write about rejection and failure, both. I write about all the days I wake up feeling extra-mopey. All the days I wake up and just feel like shouting, honestly, Hannah, when are you going to figure it out?
I write about what I worry about. I write about where I go, when I’m approximately two blinks away from bawling.
I write about family and friends and the lovely way I get them confused, sometimes. I write about breakfast, lunch, and dinner, plus any and all extras in-between. (I like those. Or I used to.)
I write about things that make me want to reach out and things that make me want to pull away. I write about every single thing I’m working on.
I write about the book proposal that I keep picking up and putting down. I write about guilt and fear and jealousy and hurt, in addition to all the other feelings that have a really annoying way of boomeranging.
I write about it all. And suddenly, it all feels stale.
It’s excruciatingly slow — this process of becoming. Of becoming and then unbecoming.
Have you been following along, for all this time? Yes? I’d say I owe you an ice cream, then. Frozen custard, if you want to be technical. If you’ve never tried it, believe me when I say it’s better than ice cream. (Jeni’s notwithstanding). Strawberry shortcake sound okay?
I’d like that. I’d like a real connection, all of a sudden. That’s what I’d actually like.
I’d like to go on hikes and swim in streams and sit in the fresh air, outside. I’d like to break all of our graham crackers into s’mores-shaped sizes and eat square after square of cheap chocolate, with or without marshmallows in the middle. I’d like to fill up on those. I’d like to forget about our phones, and find a quiet spot, and maybe-possibly figure out how the heck to set up a tent.
I’d like to be sandwiched between a place you like to go and a book you say is good. I’d like to stay up too late and laugh too hard and wonder about it all, in the morning. I’d just like to enjoy it. It’s getting old, I think. To document, dissect, and distribute it all.