I feel so trapped, like I don't know how to get the thoughts out, or even how to turn my feelings into thoughts and words.  I feel so stupid because of it.  I feel silenced by my insecurities of incompetancy.  I suppose it's normal to not be able to easily express myself, but it came so naturally for me before.  Nowadays I have to work so hard for everything.  So I guess I'll just pick up the pen and write.  Write about what?  I dunno.  I could write about the homeless lady I drive past on my way to work everyday.  Or the hitch hickers going to Portland - assumably going for the lucrative heroine market in that area.

Well, I guess to hell with my ideas for the minute.  Even my poetry is unfamiliar to me.  I read it and am shocked at the end when I see MY name.  As if it were brand new to me.  Was that in another life?

I am lost in my own world of not knowing up from down.  I have friends that don't call, in-laws that hate me, a family that despises any success I have, co-workers that don't know me from Joe Blow, a husband that adores me, cats that depend on me, a dead grandmother that is always with me, teachers that I am a mere number to, and - to me - the most important person in the world.  I try to please people, and they don't even know I'm there.  

Where does that leave me?

Here.