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Writers Sickness.

Why is it when a neighbor slams a door my heart jumps within my chest? 


Why do I feel fear at walking into someplace I've never been if I'm alone? 


Why do I hide for days on end, afraid to let anyone in?


I'm broken. I'm not as brave as I would like you to believe. I live in fear most days, but sometimes I have the courage to face my fears. Others, like today, I prefer to hide from those who have hurt me in the past or who might in the future.


These are the days I have "writers sickness" ... when I hide from the world and the only allies I have are the ones I create on paper. This is my prison; my torture. This is my never ending quest to search for humanity within myself. This is how I learn about the agony others have subjected me to. When I hide, it's because I feel weak, like I don't dare face the world for fear of it happening all over again; the beatings, the rape, the forced starvation. 


So I hide. I binge-eat whatever I can find and pray I haven't been grocery shopping recently. I write, searching for companionship. And I watch movies based on Stephen King books so that I might come to realize I'm not the only one in the world with serious problems in their head. 

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