It’s time for intermission: as if I even had to say so, considering that I’ve hardly posted anything on here in three weeks.
When I wrote Ronald. Fucking. McDonald., I felt like I finally spilled some of my guts out to the world. Don’t get me wrong: I put a good deal of thought into anything I post here. Something different happened, though. It was a non-fiction piece, and I don’t do that often.
I felt relieved to have put it out there. But then, something just kind of snapped in me. When you pour yourself out into even a small outlet, you feel these immense feelings of gratitude, relief, and genuine human connection. You’re thankful that people read it. You don’t feel like that part of yourself is trapped in a box, anymore. And you feel like people get it.
Then, you realize that what you’ve written tells more about who you are than you care to look at in the mirror.
I’m not in the least ashamed. I’m just…frustrated…at who I’ve become. Some moments define you, and I don’t want to be limited to grotesque experiences molding me into whatever it is that I am.
I have to admit that the reflection looking back at me in that mirror is scarier than it once was.
And I’m sort of paralyzed with that fear right now: too shook up to write about anything.