Oh, I do so often feel as if I am behind my peers.
I also feel as if I have wasted time and my talents by not having more to show as a writer.
Now that my life is a little more stable and I am not currently in the midst of a whirlwind of drama, I have committed to writing more – and bigger. It’s time for me to get serious about writing a book.
Shit or get off the pot, Honey; if you’re not going to do it now, then quit pretending that you’re ever going to do it.
But, here’s the kicker with that:
Writing about my life means sifting through all of the past pain, remembering every little detail of every little (or big) hurt.
And as my writer friend and I bonded over yesterday, writing about the trauma is traumatizing. Asking oneself to relive brutal moments takes a serious toll on a soul.
I cry at the drop of a hat. All I want to do is watch tv and check out.
I’m mad, all over again, at anyone who has done me wrong.
I feel lonely and scared and just fucking exhausted.
My tank is empty. The reserves have dried up.
Did I mention that I cry all of the time?
And yet, as impossible as this all feels, as much as I want to give up, maybe even check myself into a psych ward for a while, some really good writing is coming out of it.
That makes it all worth it.