Sitting here looking at FB. Insta. Never ever a good idea. as soon as it gets the teeniest bit obsessive, that little seed of mental unrest takes root. because I am literally out of my mind out of my life and my business and into someone else’s. i lose my own foundation if only a tiny bit. a tiny bit is all it takes. curiosity killed the cat. where did that saying come from?

Some people on FB are always posting #blessed type stuff, never ever anything messy or insecure or angry. so happy and full of love and life it rattles me. Especially when they’re people I only know anymore through social media. we are our own publicists.

part of me regrets posting that blog article, 10 tips for writing chick lit. it’s so sad and angry and heavy and dark. It made me cringe reading it. What will they think? They’ll think I’m mad. Pathetic. Creepy.

but then i scroll-troll through facebook and after the twentieth happiest, most #blessed ever post, I’m like, it’s okay. leave it there. the balance is necessary. if i were one of the happyhappy people i wouldn’t be an artist. i wouldn’t write novels. i wouldn’t connect with people every so often on that deep, terrified level and help to ease our isolation and loneliness just a little, just enough to act as a healing salve. and go on another day. not that I’m sitting here cupping a handful of sleeping pills. I’m not that bad. But on the worst days, being obliterated sounds blissful.

Really, I’m okay. I’m down to liquid lexapro. Two or so milligrams. I’m dealing. I’m doing. There’s laughter, foul language and deadlifts.

sometimes when i walk the dogs, and it doesn’t matter what time of the month it is, i’m struck with such a hit of sadness, out of nowhere it seems, this bleakness, this black-and-white cracked earth desert photo of a feeling. and then it passes. but it’s that very feeling that inspires art. for me anyway. it gets me writing. even though it’s a painful stab, it’s full too.

the world is fucked up. with the hatred and killing and hostilities everywhere. i totally get being grateful and happy and #blessed in the midst of it. it’s political, isn’t it, in a way? Don’t let the villains win and all that. I feel all those good things. My kids are healthy. My marriage is good. I have a beautiful home, a great job, all that good stuff.

but deeper down there’s an ache. it’s not even a wanting. it used to be. back when i believed that having something—love, riches, acclaim—would heal me. it’s just a blackness now though. maybe from my childhood. a charcoal lump that waits. this is what busy-ness is for. it’s running away. and what meditation is for. for facing it. dog walks. writing. casting light into the darkness.

it’s death maybe. the fear that in the end, no one will ever know we were even here. none of it will matter. the universe, the multiverse is too big. it’s existential. we’re all just spinning.

it’s a diary entry. from a middle-aged housewife. with no ending, happy or otherwise.