I am sober, and yet I started writing.
There is a deep shame permeating everything. A fear of not being enough, not belonging, being alone. Being excluded. When I write, I fear that I will be judged, that what I produce won’t be liked, that I won’t be liked. Worthless.
I wanted to do something passive instead, like playing video games. Not with people. Alone. A losing proposition, the shame comes back. I am ashamed of not writing then, while I play. Acutely aware that I am lonely, that I am distracting myself. That I should be doing something else.
It is all to easy to find the roots for that in my childhood. Yet, I am not a child anymore. But I hide in plain sight, just like a child. The unconditioned child is hiding. The unconditioned child is where my creativity sits, my joy, my life. And it is deathly afraid. Maybe the shame enables it to stay hidden, to stay safe, to protect itself from being chastized. From being wrong.
There is a sadness that arises while writing this. A grief of not having had a good childhood?
I am conflicted, part of me believes that I had a great childhood, but I am being unreasonable. My expectations are too high, I am too demanding. And I want to cling on to the thought of having had a good childhood. What is the alternative? To admit that my parents were deeply flawed? That the wounds that they caused still hurt? I blame them, and yet I love them.
Not enough to mend our broken relationship. This is tiring. Fuck.