Do you ever wonder if people are just tired of hearing from you?

 

That’s been on my mind lately—more than I expected. Ever since the fertilizer hit the ventilator, I’ve had a friend tell me, “You say too much.” And maybe I do. Maybe the resurrection of this blog proves exactly that. But here’s the thing: this isn’t for everyone else. It’s for me.

 

I know I’ve revisited a lot of the same topics—beaten some long-dead horses and dragged a few more out for good measure—but this space has become a way to collect the disjointed fragments of my thoughts and arrange them into something resembling coherence. That process now comes with the help of AI. And I get it: some purists scoff at that. But for me, after the strokes, it’s hard to get the words to come out right, let alone edit them without someone else stepping in. AI has become that someone.

 

To anyone new here, I’ve had multiple strokes that affected cognition, motor function, balance, and even basic sentence construction. This whole experience has completely upended what I thought of as “normal life.” It’s disrupted my sense of schedule, demanded I listen to what my body is saying, and forced me to sit with confusion, fatigue, and a million little “I can’t do this the way I used to” moments.

 

And yeah, the past few days? I’ve thrown myself a couple of pity parties. Low attendance, but the wine was strong—even though I can’t drink anymore.

 

I caught myself craving more feedback on these posts and then felt gross about it. Why should anyone care about what I say, especially when I’m often just dumping the clutter of my thoughts into digital form? But then again, this is for me. This is where I process. This is where I unload. It’s not a request for applause. It’s an effort to untangle everything I’m still working through.

 

It’s strange—since the suicide, I’ve noticed people actually listening more. Like, really listening. That wasn’t the case before. Honestly, in our house, feedback was minimal. Conversations weren’t really conversations. So suddenly having people pay attention? It was both addictive and overwhelming. I’m not narcissistic, I promise—I can be a little histrionic, sure—but mostly I think it stems from finally receiving the kind of acknowledgment I went without for a long time.

 

Now, about my late husband. I know that in many of these entries, it might sound like I’m bashing him. But it wasn’t always bad. In the beginning, we had a real connection. The first few years were good. But by the time we formally married in 2013, we were already drifting. The relationship became toxic—mutually so. And as I’ve said before, the toxicity was as hard to live through as finding his body was.

 

Here’s something I’ve been mulling over: does talking about the suicide and everything that came after still serve a purpose? When does reflection become rumination? It’s something I’ll bring up with my therapist, but I think I already know the answer—because, left to my own devices, I can ruminate on a lot. Pick a subject.

 

And still, even with all this writing and self-disclosure, I know my friends care. They watch. They listen. But everyone has their own life, and expecting constant feedback isn’t fair or realistic. It’s just hard to shift from five years of being largely ignored to suddenly being surrounded by voices again—some supportive, some not.

 

That’s where this blog comes in. I write. AI helps me clean it up. And then I publish. Not because I think everyone should read it—but because it needs to be said, for me. If others find meaning in it, great. If not, that’s okay too.

 

These entries are becoming a chronicle of what happens when your life goes through a meat grinder: a relationship with someone battling substance abuse, the development of my own addiction, the loss of my career, the strokes that went unnoticed because of it all. And then: the aftermath. The new chapter.

 

Friends have described this as an opportunity. And it is. But “opportunity” doesn’t always mean “easy.” This has been a massive shift, a brutal reboot. It’s a new chapter, yes—but it’s one I’m writing very carefully. And this time, the subject is me.

 

I know now that so much of me was lost in the last 27 years. And honestly? I welcome the chance to find myself again.

 

So I’ll keep posting. I’ll keep sharing this journey, messy as it is. Feedback is welcome—good, bad, or indifferent. If you think I should shut up, that’s fine too. I’ll just keep writing and keep some entries to myself.

 

For now, I’m finding peace in what I used to call “screaming into the void.” Only now, the void sometimes echoes back.

 

As always:

Be the kind of person your dog and your mom think you are.