I’ve been struggling with some insecurity when it comes to calling myself a writer.  Who am I to think I have anything valuable to share?  I don’t have it bad compared to most people.  Writing is so self-indulgent.

At my writing retreat I was asked to share a passage from my the book I’m working on.  I chose the following passage:

The taste of grapefruit takes me back to rehab.  The sun is shining and bright, I see palm trees and the sparkling ocean.  I feel a deep sense of confusion: palm trees plus sun plus ocean should equal heat.  But I’m cold.  Is it a symptom of withdrawals?

I cannot get warm. I look around at the nurses and therapists. I so desperately want to inhabit their lives.  I don’t want to be in my life anymore. I don’t want to be an addict.  There are tremendous hurdles I need to jump to live a drug-free life. I’m going to have to face my pain. 

There’s an absence in my centre. How can this nothingness hurt so much?  Such a deep, dark, black hole full of razors shredding my hope. I don’t want to be this person anymore. I’ve made choices which have taken me to this place of emptiness. 

I desperately want to fill it. Why can’t I fill it with a romantic relationship?  Why can’t I just find a man and force him to fill that hole so I won’t have that sharpness tearing at me?

I know it would only be temporary.  I can make anyone sit in that place of emptiness but eventually the true shape of that person will rip me apart.  

I don’t have it as bad as some people but I have felt pain.  I’ve also figured out how to ease that pain (hint: it isn’t a man!).

Who am I to be a writer?  Someone who would like to share my journey of figuring out how to be happy and how to enjoy life.