I’m not writing this to elicit sympathy or pity or whatever. That would make me extremely uncomfortable. I don’t want it, neither from friends nor from strangers. But especially friends. I’m writing this here because it’s my safe place to express myself. It’s a place people visit to see my work and perhaps understand a little more about me. So right now, at this moment, I need an ear or two to hear this. Just ears, not mouths.
For the past few days I’ve been haunted by all the things I’ve done that have lead me to this point. This point. It feels very specific, like I’ve reached the apex of my wretchedness. I am generally not a nice person (to people I don’t like), I am not particularly spiritual or generous, and I have a terrible temper that has, at one point or another, touched a person I love. But the biggest thing that haunts me is all the times I’ve hurt my children in the past and the times I do in the present. I sit here alone on a Friday night, at home-which I normally love doing-feeling all the weight of my children’s sadness, confusion and insecurities over the years on my shoulders; and even more heavily on my heart.