I’m having trouble writing this weekend which makes me sad after such a productive writing summer. Yesterday I wrote nothing, except for a few scribbles over coffee at a local cafe, where I went to avoid the alternative of not going outside all day. I missed a poetry reading last night that I had planned to go to, but didn’t because I didn’t want to have to be around anyone.
The trouble was as expected, it’s difficult to work several days in a busy clinic, empathizing and problem solving for others, and then return to my inner self, where my writing comes from. I worked 3 long days in a row last week. Often, I wonder how I’ve managed to work in health care for so many years. Although truly, I know why I am a nurse; although I’m seriously an introvert [Myers Briggs type: INTP], I’m also a compulsive caregiver [Enneagram Type 2].
What I really wonder is why, for so many years, I tried so hard to want what I thought other people wanted in their lives—friends, family, job. That’s hard to admit to, because it sounds so ungrateful, and I am in fact grateful for family, friends and having a job. It’s just that I can only take in so much outer stimulation before my inner life goes poof.
I just didn’t know enough about myself when I was younger to make a writing life for myself, and this past summer was such a gift, I’m already missing it sorely.
Enough of the pity-party. We’re already enveloped out here in the 9-month season of short, wet, dark days, and I need to push on through.