I’ve finally sunk into my rhythm. There were moments when I wasn’t sure I would ever find it again and I thought that I’d tapped myself dry. Being empty was my greatest fear because I knew trying to fill myself with anything other than words would be impossible. I didn’t even want to attempt it. So I kept pushing, writing every minute of every day, that first word pinned down just as the sun finally crept out of the morning fog and the last word rising up inside me as the moon did the same just outside my window. It was cold, calculated strategy.
Wake up. Write. Read. Sleep. Repeat.
I’ve done the same thing for more than a month straight, concentrating on nothing else, absorbing nothing else, and that’s how I’ve managed to get things done. Because I’m the queen of compartmentalizing and emotions make me sick. That’s why I stuff them down so deep it’s almost like they’ve disappeared, my hands on the keys plucking them one at a time only when I need them. I’m a master at pretending. That I’m fine. That I don’t care. That I don’t want or hate or miss or need.
But today I hurt. Today I miss and I hate and I want and I need. And yet I’m still fighting. I’m still fighting the one thing that makes me the writer I am, that makes me human. I want to write but I don’t want to feel even though it would be impossible. Even though no matter how deep I bury something or how many pieces I cut it into it will still exist. The weight will still be there, intact and heavy and sitting inside me. Because the truth is, the only real way to discard of anything is to share it. And not just the good things or the whole things but the dangerous things. The true things. Sharing is the thread that ties one human being to another, lifting us and carrying us and healing us. Sharing is why we’re here.
So I will.
I will write even though it makes me feel. I will write and I will share and I will heal.