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.