I tried, but I couldn't
I've thought about this newsletter often over the last few months. The last time I sent one of these little letters to you was in February, and I wanted to send more. A few times I even sat down with resolve and determination, promising myself to not only start a letter, but also finish it.
Well, the lack of post tells you how that went. All I can say is that I tried, but ultimately, I couldn't. And isn't that the most fitting motto to what 2021 has been like?
I could cope with 2020. After all, it was the first global hardship I'd ever experienced, and I still had plenty to be grateful for every day.
But a BIG part of me accepting 2020 for the shitshow it was, was that I counted on 2021 to be a lot better.
And, as it turns out, in many ways it was worse.
I won't go into the details in this letter. I wrote about how I felt about the protests here.
I wrote about the wildfires here.
And about burnout here.
This letter is not about a political agenda, anything to do with public health, or any other official stuff.
It's just about being a woman and all the complications that entails, okay?
Like the fact that I'm sort-of, probably, halfway entering perimenopause, and it SUCKS.
At least I think that's what's happening, because if it isn't, what else can I blame for my insane mood swings? They are out of control bad. I'm taking my antidepressants faithfully (I'm a poster child for never skipping a dose), supported by krill oil- and Moringa-capsules, plus plenty of Turmeric, blueberries, avocados, and anything else I've ever even heard a rumour about was good for fighting depression and balancing out female hormones.
Then there are my middle-of-the-night wake-ups. I've always prided myself on having an excellent sleep schedule, only interrupted by the pesky alarm in the morning.
Sadly, that's no more. I wake up regularly every night right around 1:30am, and I need about half an hour of reading before I can fall back asleep. I'm quite worried that this is just the beginning, and that it will only get worse from there.
Why though, why?? What's the evolutionary benefit to this arbitrary waking in the middle of the night?
If it's to keep us alert to predators, don't worry your pretty head. That's why we have dogs. They will alert us to danger. Please, evolution, just let me sleep through the night, which I thought was what my no-baby-choice would entitle me to.
Next up: the spare tire that attached itself around my middle, and which may or may not be due to periomenopause.
Have I changed my habits? No. Were my habits (what diet-culture calls) good? Also no.
But my bread-, pizza-, candy- and wine-habit didn't affect my midriff in my 30s, so why does it have to affect me now in my 40s? I call perimenopause.
Don't even get me started on random joint- and back pain, hair loss that seems more excessive than it was last year, and a memory that resembles a sieve more with each passing day.
So there's all that.
And than there's this: I don't know how to write anymore.
All I've done this year is read obsessively (50 books and counting, baby), plus dipping in and out of my own blog archives, my books, and some of my old articles.
When I look at my own writing, I'm either in awe, or paralyzed, or I don't know the fuck what, but all I know is this: I'm stuck.
The first year or so of me starting my blog, it was the most random diary. Sort of: "Dear diary, today it was sunny after 5 days of rain, so I took a bunch of pictures, and here they are!" It was fun and meaningless and had no depth whatsoever.
But then, it changed. Slowly, without me meaning to, I started to share deeply personal stuff. I talked about what it was like to become an overnight stepmom of 4 at the age of 23. I talked about my depression, which had been my most protected secret until I was 32. I talked about how conflicted I had always felt in and about Germany, and how much Canada means to me, which is why I chose it as my primary country.
I talked about how hard it is to find a job you like.
I told you all about the joys and many (many!) challenges of being married to someone who's 25 years older.
I shared my deepest, most secret dreams.
I also had to admit that they didn't turn out the way I had hoped they would.
Is that where it started? I'm not sure.
All I know is that I've grown more reluctant to share my personal story; yet by not sharing it, I feel paralyzed.
I've shared my personal story for about 7 years, and now I'm at a loss. What to do instead?
Change is hard.
So many things have happened over the last few years that are worth writing about, but I seem to have lost my ability to blurt it all out on the blog.
Maybe that's growing up? Or maybe it means I'm turning into a crotchety middle-aged person? No matter what it is, the result is the same: I think I've outgrown airing my dirty laundry on my blog.
It feels profoundly sad. The blog has played a major part in me growing up. It has helped me connect with like-minded people. It helped me discover my creativity. I've found people who were like me, at a time when I felt alone and had nobody around me who understood me.
My blog was my lifeline.
I've reached a crossroad.
The blog as it was isn't anymore.
My desire to share everything that's going on is still as strong as ever.
The answer? Truth masked in fiction.
It's much more complicated. It takes months longer, it's not quick, you will never get the full story.
I have no idea what form my fiction novels will take, but most likely they will be self-published.
I will still share bits and pieces on the blog, but the full-truth days on the blog are over.
There are too many people involved now. Too much to lose.
All you guys helped me heal sufficiently that I don't need immediate access to the public anymore.
THANK YOU FOR THAT.
But also: WHAT THE FUCK.
What am I gonna do now?
I'll keep trying.
You better do, too! That's all we can do.
Love you!
Miriam
Vol. 74