I had a writing teacher who told me that if I had a sentence or paragraph or chapter that just didn't seem to improve, no matter how much you tried, maybe it's not supposed to be there. Or will come out some other way.
I just spent an hour and a half writing and re-writing stuff. And crying.
My chest kind of hurts. I'm sad, still. I'm worried about what kind of parent I'd make. I'm disappointed myself, because it still hurts to observe others' joy. Especially when that joy is baby-related. I'm worried that I'll never get that joy again. That even if we do have kids, I'll be a sad mom. I'm worried about how people see me: oversensitive, too sad for too long. I hate that sometimes I think bitter thoughts, or say them out loud.
I hate that there are awkward pauses when I talk to family members about my sister. Because they don't want to be insensitive. Or rather, I hate the reason for those pauses.
I hate that I cry when I think of her having her baby. And not with joy. But with selfish sadness, self-pity, and envy.
I was thinking about the joy (earlier when I was trying for an hour and a half to write) and I remembered this:
When I was alone in the car, I sang mushy songs to my boys.