See these spiral-bound journals? Five of them 300 pages each? Full. I’ve written 1500+ pages in five years. That’s at least five books (or one Infinite Jest-length tome). I don’t dare read them. I know what I’ll find. Despair, hate, sadness, loneliness, and anger, peppered with lyrics, quotes, entreaties, pleas, and promises to let go, move on, forgive, forget, live, love, and write–to write being the most important. For me, writing is a means of letting go, moving one, forgiveness, forgetting, living, and loving myself, then all others. I can’t imagine telling someone that their 1500+ pages don’t count because they’re not published! Why do we treat ourselves so badly?
I beat myself up everyday. Call myself a fat, lazy fuck. Procrastinator. Horrid word. The world’s population could line up and, one by one, call me a cunt and spit in my face. I’d laugh at them. Call or treat me like worthless waste of space, however, and “Hello, psych ward.” The worst bit is that I care what you think of me. Everyday I must re-learn not giving a shit what you think of me, or what I think you think of me. It’s exhausting to care so much about the wrong things.
I won’t rehash the reasons behind my lifelong war to like and love myself. I’m sick of writing about them, reliving them, and allowing them power over me. Sovereignty. I came across that word yesterday while re-reading Thich Nhat Hanh’s How to Relax. How easily I’ve gifted my sovereignty to others. No wonder I feel out of control, panicky, and overwhelmed. Teetering on madness. I risk losing the hard-earned patience and inner peace I gained such a short time ago. It scares me and I won’t stand for it.
Today, I, a writer of many books, write in my journal and here. For nobody else but me.