I Don’t Want to Write Anything

Let’s make a list:

• This sucks
• I don’t want to do this
• I don’t want to be here
• My brain is full of woe and when I try to pull an idea– any idea– out of it, my brain screeches at me.
• Which seems unnecessarily dramatic
• But I don’t know what to do about it.
• This post will be a free flow and therefore mostly gibberish.
• Edited to add this warning: there is a rather long run-on sentence at the end. Brace yourself.

I’m supposed to be writing a monologue, a short scene, and a longer but still short scene and for some reason the thoughts I have while typing this have a British accent. Why, dear mind, does our internal dialogue now have a British accent? Perhaps because then the internal ramblings are slightly more interesting? Yes, that does indeed seem to be the case.

See, the thing is that my dog died. Three weeks ago on June 15th, after battling pancreatitis for 2 weeks and then her liver failing, we decided the best thing we could do for her at that moment was to let her go. It is what I would have wanted her to do for me if the roles were reversed. Her tiny head was in my hand as the vet stopped her heart and I barely made it back to the car, carrying her pink blanket, before collapsing under the significant weight of her absence.

Three weeks and not a day goes by where I don’t cry at least once, don’t expect to see her wagging her tail and carrying a toy when I walk in the door, wish like hell her 15lb self was taking up the majority of the bed again, and the worst part of all is that every other person in the world has gone on with their lives. I carry this grief alone and that’s okay, expected really, because nobody loved her like I did. She was bonded to me and me alone, and I to her alone, and now she has been set free while I remain and I don’t want to write scenes or monologues or even blog posts because my brain just wants to sit in emptiness and despair and maybe if I’m very, very lucky I will just fade away…

She took my scarred heart with her.