When I look back, I can see what a nightmare of a year I suffered from about 9/2017 to 9/2018. I had the mysterious illness (which I still have, but the implications are no longer so terrifying -- they think it is an autoimmune diseases that just crops up, causes inflammation, and makes me cough now and then -- The solution is long courses of prednisone - but it works.)
I miss writing, but I finally have a dream job, so how can I complain? I am putting out a TON of wonderful energy to a large number of receptive people - parents, administrators, colleagues, and most importantly, young people (in the 11 - 12 range). I'm certainly touching more lives positively with this than I have so far with my writing.
It is funny to abandon a website, come back, and find thousands of people are still reading my old stuff. Then I look back at my old journal entries, and it's so embarrassing because I write in a time of vulnerability, and I'm much more guarded when all is going fine for me. I see my vulnerability, depth of thought, superstition, and spirituality. Being in trouble (in relationships, in sickness, etc.) takes a person there, I guess.
Though looking back at my vulnerability makes me cringe, I appreciate where I went psychologically. And I like that I shared it with strangers. I sound a little flaky, I think, in some of them -- but I certainly can't judge that person. She was facing possible serious complications of illness, financial ruin, and perhaps death. How can I blame her for becoming so superstitious? But I refer to myself as "her" because I don't feel comfortable owning that person - I don't feel this way anymore. It is me, though. And I'm glad I have that resource to get me though tough times. I just feel a little strange about it now.
I look forward to getting back to writing in the summer.
And I'm glad I'm out of the struggle.