So I started writing THE BOOK.
The one that I’ve hedged about writing.
It’s doing what I was afraid it would it would do.
It made me remember things I didn’t want to remember.
I had feelings I pushed away.
A person I’m ashamed to have to have been.
But I had to be HER to recover.
SHE had to have her time so I could have mine.
Things I said.
Things I did.
Things I wouldn’t do now.
I did do them.
And it feels like a scar that was healing.
But it was healing wrong.
I cut so it bleeds fresh again.
Each page is written in that blood.
The whole BOOK may be a bloody mess.
Each tear. Each snort. Each raw, gaping truth.
Maybe this time it’ll heal correctly.
Either way, I’ve started writing THE BOOK.