As a person in recovery, writing often helps me make sense of my self and the world around. At times I’ve no idea how I feel or what I am? One minute I’ve convinced myself I’m a remorseful psychopath wandering around comfortably numb. A moment later I’ve transformed into a hopeless romantic with love in his heart.
I can read a page of words and feel as if I’ve reached a point of understanding, then after re-reading my head feels like a box of scrabble pieces scattered all over the floor, reluctantly coming together for an awkward dinner date.
I often feel confused, guilty and frustrated and wish that I could edit emotions like I can words.
Last night I dreamt I was in the middle of the Yankee stadium. Guilt, frustration and shame came flying at me in the form of killer baseballs. They were impossible to hit. A stranger in the crowd shouted out,
‘Let them flow through you, like water.’
But I couldn’t and felt the pain of each one, like a thousand orphan children crying for their fathers.