The last thing I want to do this morning is sit and write.
The words are colored by inner rage and I don’t want to spread it around and so I grapple with what to say and what not to say; how much truth is too much truth? Where to draw the line?
I start to question how the practice of writing and I honor each other when I feel such resentment towards her. Usually, it’s here that I would take a step back and give us both some space to settle but this is day 9 of 30 and there is no stopping; there is only a pause, a deep breath and a step forward to stay in integrity with my commitment to my craft.
The questioning doesn’t stop there, though—I am also subconsciously looking for ways to punish myself for feeling angry and frustrated this morning and for yelling and for allowing the emotion of anger to rule—shame slowly creeps her warmth into my cheeks until I am consumed and the desire to bury myself from the world is strong.
I want to not feel this heat that is so familiar to me and in the moments at the crux of my outburst, I let myself fall onto the bed, oh-so-dramatically, onto the warmth of my dog and spring a few crocodile tears free from my eyes.
(One day, not so long ago, I might have pulled the tab, releasing the emergency slide and let myself disappear or numb out or continue into the darkness of self-punishment—instead, I act out the moment when words fail me and the emotions become too-big and too-full for me to contain or make sense of.)
And in the unwinding of all this onto the blank page, I can already feel my body finding forgiveness. As I come clean to myself, through the tapping of my finger tips, I set myself free.