Normally when I write, I start one of two ways. I start with an idea or story and mull it over in my head until I hear it work. Or, I start in the moment and write where I am and see where I end up.
I don't have an idea today. And if I start in the moment, with my fluffy red socks, with Peg Plus Cat on the TV, with my pajama clad daughter's foot on my stomach, with the empty coffee cup I keep absentmindedly lifting to my lips, with the overflowing laundry basket in the middle of the room, if I tell the truth as it is now, will anyone still be reading?
There's truth and then there's Truth.
Every morning, I'm on the couch. The TV's on. I stare absent-mindedly at Twitter, longing for a time when Twitter felt like playing, like I was at a party where everyone liked me, where it felt like a break instead of feeling like nothing.
Every day I empty my dishwasher. Every day I fold laundry. Every day I get dressed. I make breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I watch my daughter color. I read Olivia, Green Eggs and Ham, Madeline.
That's what I do.
That's not who I am.
I am a mother. I am a reader. I am a writer. I am compassionate and empathic. I am wise. I am goofy. I like wordplay. I like crossword puzzles. I like psychology and brain theory. I live in my head and in the computer and in the world. I believe in the power of words and the power of love. I believe that the ordinary things matter as much as the extraordinary.
I am someone. I am not what I do.
I want to write the truth, I want to be authentic. I want to be the same me everywhere I go. I want to live a life out loud, to not be ashamed or afraid. But I'm not my laundry, and I'm not my depression, and (even though I really forget this one) I'm not my kids.
I want to tell the truth, but I don't even really know what it is. There's something in my head that I desperately want to get out there but I don't know how to say it or how to even hear it. I want to be seen. Me. The real me. Sometimes I feel like the more I talk, the less people understand.