Sick of My Story

I’ve always thought that I can’t help anyone, until I am healed. I can’t write a story, until I have the right ending. I won’t have an impact, until I have arrived. But healing is not linear, and seemingly, never ends. If I don’t start writing the story, the only way it ends, is with my dying without it being written. And I can’t arrive anywhere or have an impact on anything, without putting myself out there first. 

The problem is, I’m sick of my story. The abandoned/Daddy issues/molested/chaotic-abusive childhood/best friend died/blackout drunk/rape survivor/slutty single mom, story. Even though I know it ends in a heap of victories, large and small, it’s the first 20 chapters that are so exhausting. Who wants to read 20 chapters of basic white girl sob story, just to get to the basic white girl happy ending?

I’ve carried this story as a badge of honor, “Look what I have been through, and look what I have become despite of it!” I’ve carried it, like a backpack, picking up little traumas and silver linings, along the way. I’ve carried it around as an excuse for why I’m so crazy. Why I struggle so hard at life sometimes. Why I can’t quite level up to my next phase of growth. Not that it’s not a valid excuse, it IS a heavy backpack. Let me dump it all out at your feet so you can see and understand me. This story + my genetics HAS given me a host of legitimate mental health issues, and after all, healing is not linear. But I’m sick of carrying it. It’s cumbersome and tedious. 

The narrative has gotten stale and feels insipid and I’m about ready to ditch it, all together. I thought that meant writing the story, to get it OUT of me. Maybe it still does, but when I sit at my computer lately, I’m just like, “Ugh. THIS again.” I feel whiny. Self indulgent. It doesn’t seem like anything that would have an impact on anyone, maybe not even me. 

Perhaps it’s because I’m getting to the hard parts. Past the childhood traumas and towards the ones brought on by my own poor choices and self sabotage. Maybe it’s because I’m just not as good a writer, as I thought I was, when I started out. 

Regardless of the reason, I’ve been avoiding my computer. I’ve been avoiding WordPress. Avoiding my teeny-weeny beginning of a book. But I’m finding that circumventing this boring old story, is not making me feel any better. So where is the balance between avoidance and wallowing? When it comes to writing, is there one? When it comes to LIFE, is there one? Is there a way to write my story without falling into my own pit of despair? Without putting potential readers to sleep with details that are only relevant and interesting to me? Yes. There is. IF you are a good writer. I suppose the only way I’ll ever find out, is by doing the damn thing before I die. 

As for arrival, I keep forgetting that when I started this whole process, it was for ME. Not for likes or readers, not for the possibility of publication. It was a catharsis, for the sake of itself. So to that end, just arriving in front of my computer, willing to put myself out there, is yet another little victory.