Doors.

Doors. I never knew how scary they could be.

I’m currently sitting in a small medical office, waiting for my doctor to knock on the door before he enters to go over my lab results — results that I already know aren’t positive. I’m not being pessimistic. If you pay attention to your body, you’ll know when things aren’t right. My body has been screaming at me for a long time now, but the cancer had always overridden the diabetes and fibromyalgia. But, as Dr. S. said last week, “it’s time.” Time to get it all under control. Time to stop neglecting the rest of my problems in lieu of the greater ones.

I can hear voices outside the door: other patients and medical staff. Focusing on them does little to calm my anxiety. I don’t want to be here. I want to walk out of the door and not come back. But that would be the irresponsible thing to do. The adult and rational part of me knows that I have to stay. I have to wait for that inevitable knock and the news that is to follow.

A Writer’s Block (Literally)

Some days are harder than others. Some days, the words flow freely from my mind through my fingertips into my computer, and other days I sit in front of the screen, a million thoughts flowing through my head, not quite making the full trip to my hands. In these latter moments, the logical part of me places a wall up, stopping the flow before it comes to full fruition. I do this instinctively, knowing that if I were to just let go, let it all come out, it wouldn’t quite make sense to the average reader. That’s where I find myself this morning.

Just before bed last night, there was…well, let’s just say, an episode of sorts, which led to an internal war of the worlds that left me in tears and utterly confused. I know where the confusion comes from, and I’m doing my best to leave it be, to not fret over it. It’s difficult though, continuing forward with the looming uncertainty of what lies ahead. Faith can be a fickle thing for us humans, constantly changing, some days strong, others seemingly nonexistent.

As much as writing is a tool, therapeutic in various ways, sometimes you just don’t know what to write. Even last night, when all my being wanted to say something, while there were tons of somethings in my head, a whole lot of nothing came out. For this specific reason, I’ve decided to begin using writing prompts in these moments when my thoughts aren’t cohesive enough to share. Here’s to better writing habits.