What I've been Meaning to Say Is....

I have started no less than six different posts this week, but I write a few sentences and just lose interest. I can't decided if it is due to exhaustion, laziness, partial writer's block or my worry that I'm a boring writer. It's likely a bit of all of those, but whatever the reason, it's driving me crazy.

I want to want to write. Does that make sense?

I want to share what I'm thinking and experiencing, but the minute I start to express it in typed form, I shut down. I really blog for the sense of community, but when I don't hear feedback from people, I lose interest, I guess.


But I also doubt my ability. I read other blogs that are so inspiring and heartwarming and funny and interesting, and then I always find myself thinking 'I can't write like that -- why even bother?'


I also worry about always sounding down. It's a really tough year and I have to work hard to find inspiring things to write about when really all I want to do is sleep. I don't want to blog if it's not going to help someone. I just don't see the purpose of public complaining -- unless, of course, it's funny.

So the best I can do is give you a list of the things I started to post about but chickened out on. First was the post about Nastia's new interest in art, and all the changes I'm seeing in her through this new obsession. She is surprisingly gifted and her teacher is taking notice and really encouraging her.

Then there was the sad one about her recent obsession with my death. I know that's been reignited from the movie she saw last week, but it's getting positively depressing. All day long I hear 'Where will I go when you die? Who will take care of me? Why can't I die when you do? Why do you have to die? It's not fair. You probably only have five years left. I'll be homeless, I know it. I don't want you to die, mommy...' I just endured 45 minutes of this in her room, in the dark. She finally fell asleep.


Then there was going to be the truthful albeit humorous post about the perils of peri-menopause. You know, that time of life when you become a complete basketcase with no working memory, but extra stores of death-like exhaustion and itchy skin that you want to tear off your body. You know, the time of life when you cry and cry and cry for no reason at all, and even your pets think you're crazy.

Then I was going to write about unemployment, and what it feels like for a first-timer like me. The debilitating fear. The feelings of unworthiness. The monotony. The loss of work joy. (Yes, there is such a thing. I had insane amounts of work joy, and it's gone...)

Another half-written post was about what witty things to say back to all those ignorant people who say really stupid things to your face about adoption. Like the woman who asked me last year if I had any of my OWN children, or just 'HER' [said while gesturing to my daughter, who was standing there] That's a post I definitely want to finish at some point.

I can't remember the other almost-posts off-hand because, well, my memory is shot to hell. But I know there were others. If any of you reading this have any feedback, I'd love to hear it. Like, if you are in that awful peri-menopausal time of life and don't recognize yourself, I'd like to know. I need to know. Or if you have witty comebacks for any of those horrible things people say when you're an adoptive parent, I'd really like to hear them. And write them down on index cards. And laminate them. And put them in my purse. Because I'm definitely of a mind to say them these days, even if it means reading them off a cue card.