I am wondering what my deal is when it comes to my wavering self-interest. I understand that I prioritize my children and my family above myself. I understand that everything I may do that is a creative endeavor is a risk of showing my authentic self and getting whooped. Fear does a lot of dances around not showing up for yourself. And my bad opinion of egomania is well-established and substantiated which makes me not want to be that way.
Except, I’m a writer for goodness sake. I have to find what I think somewhat interesting to begin writing. And usually I find my way through to another set of thoughts I’m surprised by. But why don’t I find what I think interesting enough to promote, to delve into more deeply and publish? It’s like I’m two different people. The mild-mannered writer by night and then the American housewife by day. Hmmmmm…
I have the potential to write really interesting pieces, in fact whenever I read my work I’m always surprised at how well spoken I am. But a general compulsion to have my thoughts on certain subjects known on a broader band, I’ve got nothing. As if I just turn a knob off for my existence. I don’t exist for myself, I exist for everyone and everywhere else.
I bring these thoughts to my therapist and to you. You are bearing witness to my process. I am inviting you here within my head in case you too have problems in the places I do. And I greatly appreciate your presence. But know this, I will break through. I always do.
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