A few years ago, I could write for hours. On any topic. It was therapeutic. Give me an hour and I would have an article knocked out. Relationships, domestic abuse, female empowerment, etc. I could put my opinions to paper without hesitation.
And then it all just stopped.
I don’t know exactly what caused the hiatus. I work a lot, but I had time to write. There were a few relationships, but those should have made me more loquacious for the amount of bullshit that was brought into my life. Social media, maybe? My posting on Facebook increased until I was posting several times each day.
My life just became routine. Exciting times have been had, but there hasn’t been anything inspiring about it. I recently turned 33, and my life at 33 doesn’t look very dissimilar than it was at 23. Except at 23, I was full of zest for life, eyes round at all of the things I would accomplish. I touted my independence and degrees, full of achievements! Ha. Today, I’m less boastful, more realistic. More confident and more certain of myself. I’m hell to deal with. I’m also on my way to bitter. Disappointed at the state of my career, disillusioned about love, depressed at my portfolio.
I was intelligent. I was attractive. Was that not all I needed to achieve what I wanted in life?