So, this week kicked my ass. I had to be delusional to think that all of the work that I’ve been doing on my book wouldn’t catch up with me emotionally. Ha! The first few chapters that I wrote were written in a very detached kind of way, not giving characters names, writing in the third person, etc. I insulated myself just enough that I could get the memories out without having to totally expose myself to the pain. Then I got brave, and the last two (?) chapters that I wrote were from a first person perspective… and that’s when shit got real (as they say).
It’s telling that the first time I cried during this process was after I finished the last chapter. The sadness was so thoroughly depleting and I spent the rest of the week walking around in a heavy-hearted fog. Even people at work asked if I was ok and one of my closest coworkers wondered if I was thinking about leaving my job (which I’m not). I’ve just had such a hard time pulling myself out of the funk, even at work where I’m usually able to escape my life stuff and focus in on what needs to get done.
I haven’t written since that last chapter. The day after I finished it, it was my birthday, so I gave myself the day off to just enjoy a day of peace. Then the day after that, the funk had settled in and all I wanted to do was find a way out. And now it’s Friday, blessed beautiful Friday, and I’m wrestling with actually forcing myself to write the next chapter. I don’t want to lean into it. I want to run away from it. It’s what I’ve done for years; what kind of masochist leans into pain? A stupid one.