Writing

Writing hurts. Its this excruciating extraction that generally leads to an imperfect product, sets one's soul up for ridicule and releases vulnerable little ideas out of the nest before they're ready.

I worry about everything these days. The fact that at 3pm I still haven't made the bed. That empty jar of peanut butter I haven't finished rinsing. How soon my supervisors will e-mail me for a status update. When I will get time to work on that conference paper. If I bought the wrong jeans. Why my head hurts daily. If silence means an accident. If I'm eating all wrong. If that uti actually started in my kidneys rather than ending up there. If I'm faking out my therapist when I try to be positive in front of her, for practice. That our next session will be our last, even when I'm not ready. That Odin will get fed up with my mood swings. That he won't get fed up, but that he will die first. That the book that never showed on amazon will show with one day to spare and I won't be able to get a refund. That my pirouettes suck and the 40 other people in my adult ballet class will think I'm a clumsy intruder. That I'm ageing prematurly, might have high cholesterol, might never have a baby, might have a baby and regret it, that I might never get married, that I might not have enough money, that I'm bipolar.

I haven't been writing. When I'm like this it hurts too much. It hurt too much then too. I couldn't write without crying. I'm afraid that my life is falling apart because I can't stop worrying. Because of that, everything hurts more. I can't see it in the context of real life, the only context I have is immanent disaster and nothing but constant reassurance works.

I betray myself and my writing holds a mirror up to that. It accuses me, ruthlessly and leaves me crying because I see myself for the self destructive person I can be at times.