I’m a writer with nothing to say

I’m a writer with nothing to say

There; I’ve said it. I’m a writer, a journalist, and a memoirist who can’t think of a single interesting thing to blog about. Admitting this brings tears to my eyes. When nothing else is certain, I’ve always had something to say. I’m not sure what part of this makes me sadder: that my creativity and awareness is depleted, or that I’m desperately clinging to a “me” that might not exist anymore.

Everyone who is close to me knows how I just love personal drama. Whether it’s a situation with my mother-in-law, concern for my mom and sister, dissatisfaction with my weight, an injury, or just feeling lonely, I’ve always been someone who has “something” going on. I’m beyond tired of being that “someone.” So, in my quest to not spill my heart to the world on a weekly basis, I’m left with little to say.

I want to be better- I want my words back. The thought that I didn’t use my gift, so it’s been taken away, presses on me. The wait is an agony. I’ve always been waiting; ready to be done with where I am, and move on to better days.  I carry so much regret for wasting the life God has given me. My university years are a blur- I counted the days until I was done. I couldn’t appreciate how precious my sister was until it became obvious that I failed her. I didn’t go birthday shopping with my grandmother because I wanted cash for my upcoming study abroad semester, instead; three weeks later we found out that cancer that was ravaging her body, and would ultimately end her life in just over three months. Today, I’m itching to move out of our Shoebox and start a family, when I’m not ready for either.

I miss the “me” that I was when I began college. I was dedicated to academic excellence, motivated to succeed, an accomplished youth advocate, and so careful with money. Ideas flowed from my fingertips and into academic, personal, and professional works. In stark contrast: I forgot how to spell “judgement” last week. It’s pitiful, but I miss the person I was. I don’t know that she exists anymore. She’s been replaced by someone she would have considered a failure.

A few years ago, I told my mom through hiccupping tears that, “I’m not depressed. I’m just really sad.” Maybe that’s still true. I’ve failed at all the things that matter: relationships, academics, finances. Still, I want to believe that the Lord will refine and restore me. But, restore me to what? To some factory setting that I can pile programs and apps onto until nothing loads the way it should, and I need to be synced again? (Forgive the iPhone imagery, please.) Will He give me my words back?

The worst part: I don’t know if I know how to be OK. Encouraging, exciting, lovely things grace my world, and I can’t enjoy them. It isn’t that I’m miserable, just a bit too even for comfort. How can I expect to passionately profess wonder at the Lord’s creation when I don’t feel much more than relief that the fertilizer isn’t hitting the fan?

God is good, even when I don’t know how to be thankful. Perhaps it’s time to just relax into His blessings, and stop trying to micromanage their distribution. Maybe then my words will return.


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