I’ve fallen into an uncomfortable blog habit, and it’s causing me untold amounts of anxiety. For the past few months, I’ve been trying to update less – give myself a bit of a break, as it were. I had been writing almost daily for over 11 years, and I was a little worn out (not to mention running out of stories to tell), so instead of shutting things down entirely, I thought that I’d write fewer posts and relish the time off in between. For a while, it was going well: I’d blog something, then by the time I felt I should blog again, I’d have something to say. I get a break, you get a break, and we’ll meet up again afterward all refreshed and looking forward to reconnecting. It’s kind of like makeup sex, only without the angry orgasms.

Unfortunately, the time between posts is getting longer and longer, and every time I think “I really need to update” I find myself staring a huge blank wall. Things are going on; I just .. don’t feel like writing about them. And then I feel guilty, and then I start to wallow in anxiety, and no shit sometimes I actually can’t sleep at night because I can’t stop freaking out about the lack of writing I’m doing. It’s not a good headspace at all, and I feel guilty about feeling guilty and the whole goddamn thing starts all over again.

There’s a level of interaction I’ve grown used to with my blog, and that has dwindled away to nothing. The advent of Twitter, Facebook and Instagram have spread people too thin, and no one comments anymore. I miss that; miss the feedback I used to get from people who read my words. It’s a selfish way to feel, because I’ve always been adamant that I write for me and not for comments or likes .. but now the comments are gone, I’ve forgotten why I’m sharing. Blogging has never before felt like I was speaking to an empty wall, but it’s what I’m experiencing now: a whole lot of “why bother?”. If I can’t muster up the effort required to care about the things I do on a daily basis, how can I expect others to care?

Of course, because I’m not clever enough to look at this ocean of ennui as a scientific experiment or anything, I’m worried that I’m falling into my standard depressive cycle again – but one so insidious that I’m not even fully aware of it. I really hate the “why bother” of it all, because to me that’s the worst possible emotion someone could feel about anything – it’s beyond upset and beyond giving up, it’s just .. why? It’s terrible; an endless nothing devoid of joy or anger or cookies. I’m pretty sure I’m practically pathologically afraid of feeling that way, and to feel it all over something so close to my heart? To not give a rat’s ass over something I’ve spent a third of my life cultivating? That can’t be real; it must be astral interference with my midichlorians. Makes perfect sense.

What if it’s not, though?

What if I’m just out of things to say?

The main thing keeping me from closing up shop is the loss of identity I’d feel. I still struggle over losing pieces of my past that I really loved, and the last thing I’d want to do is introduce another. I do wish I could shake this anxiety and get back to Ridiculous Inappropriate Adventure .. but even that’s changed now. All the people I used to Adventure with have moved on, but I’m still here. It’s hard to drag people outside to do things with me, so I either don’t do things or I do them by myself and grow too comfortable internalizing everything. I don’t know. There are a thousand things that could be playing a part in this terrible outfit of “MEH” I’m wearing. I don’t know if it’s worth additional therapy (hey Doc, I don’t want to write about my vagina: what’s wrong with me?), but I don’t feel much like myself and .. I miss me. Where you at, me? Come back.

And where you at, the rest of you? Are you still out there? I miss you, too.

well? is it?