My brain is waiting. It’s waiting for story images to fall into sequence and the sequence into words. It’s waiting to meet the man I’ve waited all my life for. It’s waiting until I have money to take the courses I need to take to push my writing career to the next level. It’s waiting until someone moves in or I get married or whatever will happen to keep me from coming home to an empty house every night. It’s waiting to write my sponsor children, to ensure them they are important and loved. It’s waiting until that little spark of who I used to be returns and ignites.
I know it will but it isn’t now.
Because my brain is just waiting.
It’s like I’ve been building a bridge with my sight clear on where I want to go and what it will look like when I get there. But the bridge keeps collapsing, so I start rebuilding again – and again – and again. Maybe with this tool. Maybe with that material. Maybe in this shape, that shape, again maybe not. At this point, my brain has folded its arms and walked away, leaving my heart jumping up and down and pointing, “But that! But that! There! We’re going there!”
I just don’t know how to get there. I can’t find the blueprint.
I feel reckless. I’m spending money on impulse, money I didn’t plan to spend, trying to cheer up my brain, to turn the negative thoughts back into empowering ones. A year to the day I read one of my posts that a friend retweeted. A post just over a year ago, where I was confident life was going to work. Where even though circumstances had little to indicated things would work out, I so strongly believed to my core that I would get the results I wanted.
And I will. I still believe that, with a deeper, more settled belief. I even have a better idea of how I’m going to get there. I’m coming up to my 30th birthday and I know who I am and what I want to do. My heart is reviving my spirit, soothing its screams, and making plans. But my brain…
My brain has become my biggest bully.
My brain is acting like a two-year-old without a nap. It has been nit-picking at the most absurd things. Like how my makeup doesn’t look as good as my cousins’ always do, so why try? Like God’s promise to me wasn’t real, and my spirit isn’t going to connect with a man and even if it did, he’d find out I don’t want a family and I’m too hard to keep up with and he’d walk away. Like it wouldn’t matter if I did finish the fourth and final book of the series I’ve been rewriting for fifteen years because I don’t have the amount of money needed to get it properly editing, published. Like it would have no audience anyway. Like no matter what I do or don’t do, things just aren’t going to work out.
I’m forgetting things. I’m focusing on the good. I’m leaving tasks incomplete that I thought I finished. I’m making progress on one little goal. I’m staring into space. I’m laughing on the phone with a friend. I’m sleeping in instead of writing. I’m reading for pleasure at night. I’m getting up and exercising, forcing myself to take care of myself. I’m in the car wanting to keep driving and not stop. I’m happy in the sunshine. I’m moping at night. I’m confident. I’m scared. I love things. I hate things. I’m driving myself crazy. I’m lonely so I pick up the phone, then put it down because I don’t feel like talking.
Maybe I’m just human.
Then I have a week and it’s great. I’m writing a bit. My plans are falling into place. I’m finding ideas that allow me to focus on writing and publishing but have the potential for earning money to support myself and even growing into a substantial bit. Ideas that I could start as early as August or for certain by the end of this year. And my spirit smiles, my heart cheers, and my brain sits by the window and gazes off into nothingness.
It’s just waiting.
God knows what for.