I wonder, sometimes, what is “too much.” Sometimes everything feels like that. Sometimes nothing.

Today my husband called me in the middle of the day – that’s surprising because at work he can’t typically call me. But today he was driving from one location to another and had the time. The problem is that more often than I would like to admit I secretly cry at my desk. And I don’t tell him, or anyone, because it’s sad. Overall I like my life very very much. But the overwhelming threat of fascism, the constant worry about making money, and just the regular stresses of doing my fucking laundry take it out of me. So sometimes I just cry. I heard once that salt water fixes everything. Tears, the ocean, and sweat. Salt water fixes everything. I believe that to be true, so I cry until I feel better and then I just get on with it.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling too overwhelmed I’ll watch the airplane episode of Grey’s Anatomy. That guarantees tears every time. Justifiable tears. Not tears that come from just being overwhelmed in a world not designed for nuero-atypical people. I responded to an instagram reel yesterday asking what the intention was, and the creator responded saying it was “mostly hyperbole and just a joke.”  Something else I’ll never understand. And harkening back to my post from yesterday about chat gpt… I’m pretty sure she used chat gpt to write her response to me. It had an em dash in it, which isn’t necessarily a yes this was ai, except they’re really only used in academic writing not in a text message. And iphones don’t have an em dash key. And in the middle of the comment she said “And honestly? If that’s not you…” I think the “and honestly?” is my biggest ick now. But maybe I’m just looking for it. Maybe it doesn’t matter that much. Maybe it really isn’t that deep. Maybe it is that deep. Maybe everything is that deep.

Sometimes I write something incredibly vulnerable like this, and then I select all and delete it. I’ve convinced myself that I shouldn’t share these inside thoughts. I remember a video that said “bring back diaries” with hundreds of comments agreeing and I think to myself that this should be a diary entry. Not a public blog post. But what if I *want* someone to read my diary? To be honest I’ve wanted someone to read my diary my whole life. Sometimes because I’m convinced I’m the main character. Sometimes because I think it would be cool to make an impact. But most of the time because I want to be seen.

I wanted my mom to see me when I was a pre-teen, and I want to be seen now. Being seen is different than being perceived. Being perceived is a less good version of being seen. Being seen is the actual you being acknowledged and cared for. Being perceived is being seen without the deeper meaning or the care. (P.S. if you’re my mom reading this 1 hi and 2 thank you for seeing me now).

I consider cmd+a –> delete extra when the little Yoast SEO panel gives me angry red faces. Seo = bad. Readability = bad. But maybe it’s about more than that. Maybe it’s about shouting into the void, and seeing if anyone shouts back? Maybe it’s about creating something from nothing? Maybe it’s about one year from now taking every blog post and printing them into one big book and having it to look back on. Maybe a year from now I won’t spontaneously burst into tears at my desk. Maybe it’s just about creating to create. Maybe the magic is in the doing. Maybe the magic is in the being. Maybe magic doesn’t exist at all… but then again maybe it does.

As you can see my thoughts are too everywhere. My least favorite english teacher would grab them and wrestle them into something smaller. But maybe I’m meant to be big too. This isn’t a newspaper – we don’t need to fit into a four inch column. We can talk and talk and talk about whatever we want to for however long we want to. And that is that thought that convinces me magic is real.