Never Good Enough

On accepting who and what I am, and writing for discovery

Last night I got into bed and wrote in my journal.

My spine was hurting— somehow I overdid it without realizing it, which makes sense, a month after surgery. I’m impatient. I want to heal. Immediately. Now. I want things to be different. This is true for everything. Me wanting things to be different. Me wanting control.

Flowers on today’s walk.

Writing in my journal has always been a way of discovering what’s happening inside me. I don’t require my writing to be any certain way, like I do everywhere else. My sentences can be messy, my subjects mundane.

Last night I wrote about finances, about my lease in Tallahassee falling through because of mold, about my cat, about the world and how fucked up it feels.

Then, I wrote about resentment.

Resentment sometimes feels like a personality trait. I’ve done a lot of work over the years to parse through why I resent things, and nowadays I tend not to resent individuals, but rather the structure of the world around me.

On my worst days, my inner …