Compressed. I have felt that for the past several months or so for more reasons that I care to get into--for reasons that aren't even entirely important anymore. I talked--well--emailed my mom today about The Thing I Was Scared To Tell Her About. No, I'm not pregnant, on drugs, or have become a raging alcoholic (or any sort of alcoholic for that matter)--but there was a thing between us. There has been a thing for about 10 years now between us. Apparently--I was the only one aware of The Thing and she completely shot it out of the water and I feel like I can breathe now. "How can you not know how much I love you? No one compares to you?" I keep replaying that over in my head. I needed that. Thank you mom. The other weight, that's gone too. The oppressive weight of worry is finally gone and I've been cramped in a ball so tight that I am re-learning how to stretch my arms and put them over my head without worrying about something directly overhead blocking me. --I guess that's why I haven't felt like writing. My laptop is waiting quietly for me. It's waiting for me to say something. Now that I've started freelance writing and getting amazing feedback the courage is coming back. I also submitted an essay for class that I had reviewed by a good and new friend of mine. She, who is a very hard sell, was extremely impressed and that writing was purely academic. The articles I've written don't even have my name on them...but they're mine--in a manner of speaking. I do those things for the grades and for money. I am selling my work very cheap...not even by the hour--By the word. Does this make me a prostitute and am I going to hell? I'm pretty certain about the whole not going to hell part. Prostitution? Meh.
What are they thinking?
1 hour ago