I write.  Every day.  25 minutes at least, usually more.  And, I love it.  I get to explore my interiors, see what’s inside.  What will I discover?  What will I find?  It’s like a playground, a museum, with nooks, crannies, and corners full of treasure and excitement.  No filters, no editing, just raw me.

Yesterday I didn’t want to write.  I was scared, overwhelmed, barely holding it together.  I didn’t want to loosen the knot in my throat because I was pretty sure my head would fall off I would be unable to recover.  So I didn’t.

Today, despite the resistance, I forced myself to write.  

It feels like there are razor blades, broken glass, quick sand, land mines hidden in my interiors.  I don’t know what I might step on, run into, set off. 

Two nights ago…  In bed sobbing.  In the bath tub, sobbing.  Begging for it to stop.  It hurts so much, I’ll do anything to make it stop. Please, please.  Anything. Seriously.  I need relief, release from this, whatever it is.  Make it stop.

With no relief in sight, I rode the wave.  I suddenly understood why people might kill themselves, harm themselves, drink, do drugs, pull their hair out.  It just hurts so much.  I wanted the antidote, the method to pull the venom out so that I could carry on.  

The only antidote is my tears.  This venom is relentless; it’s taking a lot of tears. 

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