I finally started the process of writing my novel, my memoir.
It's really fucking hard, actually.
I'm surprised, yet somehow not.
It sounds strange to admit that sitting down and factually writing about the things that
happened to me in my life that led me to where I'm at are not actually the painful parts.
Even though I'm putting to paper things I've never admitted to anyone before, and may not
have even journaled about with myself, maybe it's that I'm writing it out as a novel?
It's first person, sure, but it reads a lot like a story.
But we all know these moments that happen, they don't feel like stories as they happen,
they're just everyday regular life.
The hard part is my journals.
I decided to dive back into my journals to gather further insight, identify themes on
parts of my life that were crucial for my development, for my change.
I don't have all the journals with me, and I realized this after I got far into the states,
looking at the times and the dates.
Of course, the ones I grabbed are in the thick of things when it was really tough.
My first experience with big life changes and healing as an adult, post-diagnosis.
It's where I started getting open and honest with myself in my journals.
It's kind of funny how rudimentary it still is.
I go over boring details of my life and I find I get bored reading it.
But the more I read on, and as time passed, I became more emotionally aware, and I openly
admit a lot of things in very vulnerable ways.
I take critical looks at myself and notice my flaws.
I have had a lot of growth since those times, and I absolutely credit this part of my life
for that.
I mean, I'm holding the evidence in my hands.
It's fucking hard.
It's hard to look at this objectively, because I get flashbacks of these periods in my life.
I actually re-feel the things I've written.
It makes it particularly heavy.
Another thing is that I look at these written words and I just want to go back in time to
hold myself, to offer myself reassurance, encouragement.
You're doing this.
You've got this.
It pays off.
I promise.
It's an interesting feeling to read this and know that I do in fact make it out alive
and know how this part of the story ends up.
The part that I find most earth-shattering and painful is, some things haven't changed,
some growth hasn't happened yet, and it leaves me feeling gutted.
I now see the Christ for help I was sending out.
I also notice a lot of these statements, these sentiments, were almost the exact same ones
I continued to journal about not that long ago, as in, all this time before hitting the
road where I describe my exhaustion, my overwhelm, in all the same ways.
These journals, they're mid to late 2021.
That's a long time to see that I've been continually stuck in this same space.
That's the part I find most shocking as I record this.
This has been such a long process, a long time coming and I didn't listen.
I didn't acknowledge.
I didn't even know what to do, how to help myself.
I still don't.
I can acknowledge that what I've done is remove myself from the stressors and the life that
was likely slowly killing me, both physically and mentally.
While this is helpful, it's also not going to change that the world around me will go
on and that I am a part of it, whether I choose to live differently or not.
The pause I'm in right now is fantastic.
It's exactly what I needed, but there are ways in which it's not likely this will go
on forever.
I'll eventually need to find ways to support myself financially.
The book, the podcast, there are ways I hope to make happen, but if there's delays or
it doesn't catch on, I'm going to need to turn back to face the real world in some way,
shape, or form.
My therapist asked me if I was running away from anything.
I said maybe, but I didn't think so.
I know that I've been running for a long time.
Much too long.
I'm so tired of that.
I know that I wasn't going to make progress or get anywhere with anything if I stayed
where I wasn't thriving.
I absolutely needed to leave for the pause.
No distraction.
This isn't uncommon as it turns out.
Many creative types and authors often leave to find complete solitude to be able to focus
exclusively on what it is they're trying to accomplish.
This is how I see the space I'm in now.
Enough self-awareness exists within me to understand that perhaps I did run, and perhaps
I am running away now, but to which extent remains up for debate and is dependent on
who you ask.
Writing is actually really messy.
I recall saying it's scary because there's no roadmap to follow, and it is scary, but
I am learning it is a craft that is 100% tailored to me.
I am writing my own roadmap for it.
I write how I want, when I want.
It's as messy as can be, as messy as I let it be, and it's 100% allowed.
I dabble in online writing courses from time to time, and a lot of the things I'm learning,
well, let's just say this is really suited to how my brain works, and I love that it's
a creative endeavor that I can just go with it exactly how I want, and I have the power
to dictate and complete a project exactly the way that works for me.
This is so freeing and so damn doable.
It makes me smile, actually.
Maybe I've finally found something that I can make fit where I can make sense of it
all.
I just need to stop roadblocking myself, and just do the damn thing.