Jennifer, The Moody Poet

I think I'm a funny person. I love to laugh and joke around and I have a good sense of humor. At least, I think I do.

When I wanted to start my blog, part of it was because I read several that are so incredibly witty and amusing and entertaining. And, since I've always loved writing, I assumed that I could create something like that, too. But, the thing is, it seems that every time I sit down to write it just comes out so melancholy.

I started a blog about a year and a half ago, but after about 10 or 15 entries that were just so damn depressing, I stopped. I think maybe a couple of my friends were reading, but I decided that no one should be subjected to my despondent ramblings.

I think back to when I was young, and I scribbled pages and pages full of poetry. Notebooks and journals filled with gut wrenching accounts of unrequited love, heartbreak, and the journey of coming of age scattered across my bedroom floor. Even then I considered my teenage angst a little over the top, and I was intelligent enough to understand that I was a living, breathing cliche. But, I just didn't know how to express myself in any other way.

When I met my first husband and settled into adult life (ADULT!?! I was such a baby, but that's another story), I felt pretty happy and I wanted to write about it. I would sit down with a journal, but nothing would come. The only time the words would ever flow freely from my pen was when I was feeling somber or troubled. This held true as the years flowed by, and if I pick up my journals now and look back, it is very rare to find an entry that is not tinged by at least a little bit of sadness or discontent. I suppose that is somewhat telling of how my story has played out, but I swear that there really were some happy times. There had to have been. I don't view myself as a miserable person, but somehow in my writing that is always how I come across.

I'm going to continue to write, and I'm going to hope that if I keep trying, my sense of humor and my joy in life will finally come through in my words. At least, sometimes. Because, frankly, even though I am happy and more in love than I ever imagined I could be, life is a little hard right now. I'm never quite whole splitting my time between my daughters and my husband. There's always at least one little piece of the puzzle that is out of place.

And, well, that tortured poet girl doesn't live too far under my skin. I can't ever keep her buried for too long. I guess I should just embrace her, because she is me.