She: You're back.
Me: Hmmm. Yes. Reluctantly.
She: But you're here.
Me: I've been realising that avoiding writing is a habit, based on something, someone I think I am. Tied up with identity. Someone who's suffering, and thinks that writing will heal the suffering. But if I stop suffering, then who will I be? In some ways I think writing will save my life. I give it this tremendous weight and importance. And so I don't do it. I avoid and fear it instead.
It's exactly the same loop as the drinking/quitting drinking loop, except I cracked that one -- exposed it I suppose is a better way of putting it. I quit drinking, nearly 1,000 days ago. I needed to, wanted to, thought it would heal the suffering, had it all tied up with identity, thought it would save my life. Gave it tremendous weight and importance. All those things matter. They all happened. But quitting drinking wasn't conclusive in the way I expected it would be. It was just the end of one thing and the start of something else. Definitely something better. I never regret being a non-drinker. It's become normal. And I can learn from this.
Writing is just normal for me. It's not a huge shattering deal. It doesn't have to be at least. I can write because I'm drawn to it. I think I've been looking for more valid reasons for doing it.
She: what do you mean by "valid"?
Me: I've felt like I've needed a bloody good reason to write. To heal myself, to heal the world, to expose the truth, to make a living, to make an impression, to inspire, to entertain, to deal with the anger I still feel toward my parents, to make sense of life, to make something of my life, to leave something worthwhile behind, to validate myself somehow.
She: How does that feel?
Me: A huge burden. That's why I avoid it. Too much pressure.
She: Where is the pressure coming from?
Me: Interesting question. I can locate it in space over my right shoulder, about a meter away, higher up than me. I can't "see" it... like it doesn't have a shape or colour. But it does have a message.
She: ... which is?
Me: "You will NEVER be a writer."
She: How do you feel about that? Start in your body.
Me: Hot in the chest. Tightness around the shoulder blades. Fingers want to curl up. And toes. I'm actually feeling quite relaxed today, so I'm not having a huge reaction to be honest. It's pretty mild.
She: How does it feel mentally?
Me: Old and annoying, boring even. Incredibly strong. Like the grip of something dead. It can't let go. But it can't do anything else either. Powerful and powerless at the same time.
She: Good description.
Me: I can see it for what it is. A very old, strong, dead idea. That's all it is. How can I let go of it? How can I get it to let go of me? I don't know what to do.
She: Just keep writing.
Me: OK.
