I’m supposed to be a writer. I should be writing.
What’s my fucking problem then?
I have Bipolar Disorder and PTSD, and it is ruining my life.
I don’t even know if I have much of a life. It revolves around doing mundane chores and taking care of children and pets. If it weren’t for the children, I’d probably have died years ago.
Which leads me to…
What is going to happen to me when they grow up and leave?
Why am I not writing?
I feel like the day will come when my children won’t need me, and the light in my eyes will go grey.
I can’t write because I’m distraught with how my life turned out.
Everything I’ve read about Existential Crises encourages readers to find their own specific passion…
I don’t know that I have passion anymore.
I used to have a successful blog and destroyed it. I’ve tried blogging in the past-to rekindle the passion for poetry, writing, and life-in general.
Maybe this blog will help me find the passion I’m lacking…