I haven’t been writing poetry lately. Or really, much of anything. For the last four-ish years I have been writing on occasion, but nothing I am supremely happy with and everything I produced seemed to feel… different somehow.

Not as powerful. Not as passionate. Some kind of watered down, mealy mouthed collection of niceties where the subject matter was literally no longer life or death. And anything less than life or death seemed somehow, completely inconsequential.

Looking back over some of my previous work has really made me face the fact that yes, my writing is different. The difference is me. I’m no longer the person who wrote those lines. I don’t think the same, I don’t have the same priorities, I am not stuck in a negative feedback loop of survival and setbacks.

But the uncomfortable truth then becomes, if I am something different, then what am I?

Growing up an abusive household left me with Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (CPTSD) and that disorder does a number on your sense of self and identity. Most of my first book (of which we do not speak) was me endlessly asking my teenage self, “Who am I?” and not having an answer.

I think the reason why I latched onto the bipolar misdiagnosis was that I didn’t have an identity and this gave me one. There were other factors present, of course, but the disease actually gave me community I ultimately didn’t belong in and I met friends who actually had the illness and learned about psychology that I didn’t have. I fit in somehow and all I really wanted in life was to fit in. Which sounds bleak. But let me assure you, it totally is.

So the eternal question remains: what now?

Where in the world could I possibly go from here. Honestly, my first instinct is to slap together some semblance of a plan and roll with it out of panic because I always have to have a plan. But right now, I don’t think haste is the best option. For once in my life, I have the space, time, and ability to actually sit down, look at what’s going on and consider everything that’s happening.

Also, when did I stop talking about writing and just start talking about life? Of course, writing was my life. For so long. The only thing keeping me sane, I used to joke. As if what I wrote was remotely sane. But somehow it still worked. (I guess?) No, it did work. As much as I want to continue joking about it, it did work.

What does the future hold? Who knows? This has been the strangest year of my life and I don’t say that lightly. As much as my overly active brain would love to get started on processing these events and planning for the future, right now I feel like I just need a moment to rest. The planning will always be there.

Not to mention, all of my ideas right now are awful and impractical. If I do need a plan, I need a better one than the fragments I have now. Because everyone loves it when I start out, “Okay, here’s my plan…” Everyone.