I started actually writing for my book. It sucks. Not the book, but the act of writing it. It hurts to relive so much hate and pain. It hurts to admit the things I’ve done in my life. It hurts to know that I’ve been hurt so much. It hurts to know how much pain my brothers have been through. It hurts to know how many people tried to help, and feel guilty for not doing enough.
There’s nothing like pouring out your soul for everyone to read. There’s nothing like trying to sum up decades of hurt, abuse, terror, love, and joy in a series of chapters that encapsulate everything at once. I keep adding and taking away. I keep twisting the knife in my soul, so I can bleed a little bit more. I cry at the agony of dragging myself over a field of pitchforks, stabbing me as they slowly crawl through my skin before popping out on the far side. But I keep doing it.
It needs to be done. I force myself to keep going. The blood, the tears, they are nothing more than fuel for a piece of work that I can only pray helps one person. I just hope I don’t hurt anyone on the way. It’s not a story that involves myself alone. There are so many people my story is built upon. It is entwined in the souls and hearts of all the people in my life. I can’t think of one person who has met me who won’t have their own comments, corrections, and notes.
I will keep writing. I will hope. I will try not to hate myself for the person I have been, am now, or will be in ten years. I will try to find peace, while I cry into my keyboard. Every chapter will be full of pain. I doubt any part of my book will be written without evoking strong emotions in me. I will cry. I will laugh. I will cringe, and save the page, because if I keep working on it, I will delete the entire chapter. I know it will come to something, and hopefully soon. I just have to keep going until it does.