I can’t write lately.

My moods are improving. Things seem to be leveling out. Medication doses stabilizing. Hormonal birth control abandoned. Therapy twice a week.

But I sit down to write and…

It’s like I’m all dried up. All talked out. Like everything has been scoped out from every angle and I have nothing left to say about it.

Instead, I want to take long walks to nowhere. Afternoon naps. Want to find a hobby, an escape that has nothing to do with words.

Or maybe I just feel stuck in general. We’re floating in that place between leaving and staying. Deposit down for a new place hundreds of miles away, but no move-in date.

My fingers itch to start putting things in cardboard boxes, to sign up for yoga classes I can walk to from our new apartment. To set up my new office and establish a new routine.

But instead I have to sit by the phone and hope our new manager will call and say, “Construction will be done next week, for sure. Move in whenever you’re ready!”

I float. Feeling like I already soaked up everything I can from this soil, but unable to leave.

Ever hopeful that maybe when we do things will start making sense again. That words will form into sentences. That my vision won’t blur around the edges. That I won’t feel like crying for no fucking reason. That it will make a difference.