Today (as in Friday, the 24th--since it's after midnight my time) is my 45th birthday. The last year has been one of the hardest. The two years I'd rank as harder were the ones where I was homeless and my husband died in a fire--and the year I lost my mother. That gives you some idea of the level of "hard" I'm talking about.
I ended up cocooning, hiding like I tend to. When I'm like that, I don't talk to friends or family. (Even at my best, I only keep up communication with about 3-4 people at a time.) I've learned not to kick myself for it--that only makes it harder to come back out. I accept it. I have a couple of friends who get it and don't get hurt if I ignore them for a few months.
But, I am a storyteller. And even if I have not written much for the past several years, it's in my nature. (Well, I write all the time. I write and edit several hundreds of pages a year--but that's work.) A dear friend, as I was telling her about everything that was happening, told me "You have the most amazing stories." She said that if it happened to her, it would just be some annoying or terrible shit--but something about the way I viewed and related them made them stories.
I have started an autobiographical project--and will be using another account to post anonymously. It will be very free-form. I am not going to worry about the timeline or the factual correctness. I'm just writing what comes to mind, as it comes.
I don't have a goal, really, other than to get back into the habit of writing. Considering the first few pages were about stuff I almost never talk about, though--this should be intense.