Talking about darkness and intensity is easy.
I can come here and intellectualize my difficulties, long after they’ve ended. I can make beauty out of rage, anxiety, lust, and compulsion. When I write about it, I’m the observer; detached from the chaos. I’m the reporter.
Who I’m not is the person who cries herself to sleep because the thought of facing the day ahead terrifies me. I’m not the person who spends hours talking myself down from the cliffs created in my head. I’m not the girl desperately hiding her phone to turn off frantic analysis of text messages and Instagram posts. Writing the words, staring at my computer screen keeps me from venturing into the dirty kitchen I’m two to three weeks behind on cleaning. With my fingers on the keyboard, I am in control.