If this was last winter, I'd be drinking a cuppa coffee. Dark roast with hazelnut creamer, sipped from my vintage looking glass mug, topped with cinnamon. I'd be savoring every sip. But when I began keeping my husband up at night with the constant jerking and trembling of my limbs, I said, "it has to go." I was stressed enough with my professional obligations, it didn't make sense to exacerbate my excitability with a substance known to provoke anxiety and psychosis. Away went the stimulant.
If it was last week, I'd be writing in my journal, not on the internet. There sits in my closet a large metal box. It is heavy, filled with an assortment of used notebooks. All mine, chronicling my life for the last 17 years or so. But today, I am writing here. I haven't quit writing. I can't quit. I've tried. I am a writer.
Writers write. Dancers dance. Singers sing. I may not do it for you, but I do it for me. Its how I process the world. Its how I express my heart. Word after word, making sentences. I write.