A Little Bit of Pixie Dust

I haven’t written a blog in almost two months, and my silence is weighing heavily on my mind. It’s not that I haven’t had stories to tell, because there is always a story. It’s really a combination of things. They fit together like a puzzle that disappoints when you place that last piece, when you don’t have a sense of accomplishment, just the realization you have wasted your time.

The primary reason I haven’t blogged is my freelance work producing web content. I spend most of my days writing, just not writing anything fun. Now, if you are interested in the benefits of metal roofing or storage units or replacing your windows, then I’ve got you covered.

I do have to be creative to make boring topics semi-interesting, and I have to do it on strict deadlines and formats and word counts. I am writing more than ever, but none of it makes me feel very good, and it barely adds loose change to my pocket. The few cents a word helps to cover the occasional dinner out or birthday gift or shoe splurge, and I am gaining what I hope will be valuable experience, and so I persist.

In addition to not having as much time or as many creative sparks, I am struggling to find humor in the every day. This is a tough one for me, because laughing is my favorite. But ever since November 8, things just don’t seem so laughable anymore. Now, every day brings another brick of sadness and hurt. My disillusionment has become the existence of so many like-minded people, when every day I want to see what’s happening in our country and the world, and we sink lower than the day before. It’s a pretty hopeless feeling, and I can’t shake it.

Part of it is that what used to amuse me seems so trivial now, as if I am wasting time on frivolity that could be better spent bearing witness to the shit show into which our political system and government has devolved. Also, things seem personal now, and hurtful, and laughing at weird news feels cruel and sadistic. We have real problems to address, but now, we cannot rely on those in charge to weigh things like facts and reason and logic before making decisions. I feel a responsibility to pay attention even if I am powerless to do anything, and all that paying attention is exhausting.

I grew up in a less than happy home. My main coping mechanism was humor. It helped me survive a pretty rough childhood, and it’s been there like a touchstone throughout my adult life. Now, I feel deserted, and alone, and scared, and at a loss. I don’t know how to cope without an ability to find comedy in tragedy. Without the humor, it’s just pain.

I have been feeling like this for weeks, and I have hesitated to express it. I don’t want to sound melodramatic and fragile. I live a pretty nice life now. I am fortunate. The social issues that matter to me do not necessarily affect me directly, and I know I am lucky. People like me who are not in survival mode are exactly the ones who need to stand up for people who can’t for whatever reason do it for themselves. Maybe it’s the reform Jew in me, or the intellectual, or just the sensitive soul I am, but the compassion I wanted for myself when I was a child is what I now share with others in whatever small way I can. I am disheartened because it doesn’t feel like it’s enough to make a difference for anyone.

I am writing this now, at the beginning of December, when I normally try to write and post 12 blogs, my annual Twelve Blogs of Christmas. I have been trying to meet this goal I set for myself every year at a time when we are all feeling both the joy and stress of the holidays. This time of year is especially busy in my home. From October to January, it’s one celebration after another. Halloween, my older daughter’s birthday, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas, New Year’s, and my younger daughter’s birthday. Throw in a good football season, and we have the makings of a mental breakdown’s worth of to-do lists and preparations. That’s a fuckton of work to be done, my friends.

In a good month, I may post two or three blogs, which as of late has dwindled to none. And now, at the start of December, I want to meet my goal. I want to take twelve moments out of my life or out of my mind, where I do most of my living anyway, and write them all down and share them with you. I can’t promise they are all going to be funny, but hopefully, they will be relatable. Who knows, maybe together, we can find a reason to get up every day and keep going in a pretty hopeless time. For me, it will be writing. For you, I have no idea, but maybe, just maybe, it will be reading.

For what it’s worth, this counts as number one. Eleven more to go. I would say game on, but I really hate that expression. Instead, I’ll leave you with this…HERE WE GO! Please read that in Peter Pan’s voice, because that’s how it sounds in my head.