I have been exhausted. Work has taken much of my energy, and I have wanted to write, but the things happening feel like they are not my story to tell. That may be in part because I should be feeling them deeply, but I have been somewhat disconnected from my feelings for a while, a possible side effect of my medication. There are times I’ve wanted to cry and I just couldn’t.

A loved one is homeless. That is one of the stories I feel is not mine to tell, and it is also the one that made me want to cry if I could. I remember how I used to wonder why a homeless person didn’t have any family they could stay with, and now I realize how naïve that thought process was. It is so much more complicated than that, especially when mental illness is involved. I can hope and pray for a better future, and that is all the control I have in this situation.

I am three months sober. I had many years where I didn’t drink, so I just put myself in that headspace when I feel an urge to drink, and that works well. I am also highly motivated by how well my bipolar medications seem to be working without alcohol. Any mood swings I have are mild and short lived. It feels great to say it’s been years instead of months since I had my last mania or depression. It takes daily healthy habits to stay that way, and so far I have been able to maintain a fairly healthy schedule.

I am struggling to write, and I am keeping my arms wide open in accepting any inspiration as a gift. I don’t want writing to go by the wayside and take a hiatus like my art has been doing. I enjoy it too much.