At the beginning of this month I thought I needed to force myself to write. I also needed to force myself to look at my life and not let it pass me by. I don't like to look too closely at my life because I've always been afraid of what I might see. Now, with only a week left of this blogging every day endeavor, I can't help but think that I've wasted this writing opportunity. And yet at the same time I know I am a quitter. It's so easy for me to just quit, walk away, put writing off to another day.
Yesterday I didn't write at all because I was too high. The day before...too high again. I can feel myself falling into my old pattern. I get scared when I have to look at my life, so I start to self-destruct. I smoke cigarettes, I get high, I drink till I blackout. I convince myself I don't care and pretend like it doesn't hurt.
Well, now I'm sitting on my parents' famous purple couch. And I can't help but wonder if this couch has mystical powers. I can't sit on this couch and pretend to be anyone except myself. There's something about this ritual. A child* returning to her parents' house only to realize that it isn't really her house anymore.
So I'm still here. I'm still writing every day until the end of April. But I'm wondering why? I defended BEDA in the discussion over on Kayley's and Hayley's blogs. I believe writing has worth, all types of writing. But how do I believe in the worth of my writing when I don't believe in the worth of myself?
*Grown up? Nearly grown up? Stuck in-between childhood and adulthood.
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