I question

When I spend a lot of time working on my book, it happens.

I start questioning my sanity.

I sit there, paralyzed...panicking.

Wanting to rip open my chest to make the pain stop.

I question who I am.

If I'm a good person.

If I'm well-intentioned.

What if I'm evil?

What if I'm hated?

What if nobody likes me?

What if I'm completely wrong about everything?

What if my version of reality isn't accurate?

Am I stable?

Can I be a mom someday?

Can I be a wife? A girlfriend?

Am I crazy?

If anyone knew what I went through, why would they trust me?

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Then I'm back.

A cool breeze brushes my face on my morning run. Then I'm back in Tenessee. Going on my morning run near our apartment. I feel the same cool breeze. Feel the same emotions. Depression. Pressure. And h

It's too good to be true.

To have these moments. Leave a self-defense class. More and more confident each week. Wearing my nice yoga pants. Drive to my mom's to drop off fresh pears from the farmer's market. We rest. On rockin

How do I know

That I'm me? I feel creative I want to write Or cook Or make jokes Or learn I'm not exhausted, obsessive, or anxious That's how I know.