Thursday, September 11, 2014

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. 

No comments:

Post a Comment

Your comments will need to be moderated before posted, thank you.

Family Monsters

Familial Trafficking survivors are trafficked within their own homes and communities by those who should be there to care, love, and protect...