I tried blogging. I hated how it made me feel. I don't give a fuck about your parenting tips. I knew you didn't care about mine, either.
I thought I wanted someone to read what I wrote, but that's wasn't it. I wanted someone- anyone- to read what I wrote and feel something. Feel empty, feel whole. I just wanted a genuine reaction.
I went all year in 2016 trying to find what would make me happy. I can't write when everything around me made me a miserable cunt. Yeah I know, deep emotions and depression can fuel great writing. However, I genuinely felt nothing. It wasn't like I could formulate a sad poem that would move you to emotion, it was as of my life was in grey. It was monotone.
I changed jobs. Twice. I found where I'm supposed to be; Long term care for seniors. I spend quality time with those most people consider broken. Specifically, I'm in life enrichment. Ive worked memory care, ive worked assisted living, and now I'm in skilled nursing. I have always loved working with seniors, especially those with memory or cognitive challenges. I find them amazing, interesting, and strong.
I spent time with family. I was selective with my battles. I did things i never do, even though my anxiety wanted to kill me for it.
Now that I feel like a person again (at least in some ways) I feel I'm ready to start the process of a novel.
This novel has a name: Pineapple.
It's going to be fiction, based on a true story. A brief descriptiom will be provided by the end of the month. I'm hoping all of my character outlines will be done this month as well. I'll set up a social media for it, so you can follow the progress. I think it's a worthy tale, and I'm excited to share.