“We can do this,” I say. “You won’t throw up,” I try to convince myself. “They will hate it,” complains the other side of me. “Don’t do it,” that seed of doubt yells. What’s my problem? Releasing my books. I feel like a hideous beast, guarding my books and I’m holding them in a corner of a room. I’m snarly and my fangs are out. My eyes widen to the size of large saucers and they are dark. I’m hissing over my books.
That’s how I perceive myself. And even worse, I have Virginia Woolf’s book. Part of me wonders why she did what she did? Now I can see why. She went to point of no return. If she had better healthcare, would she have lived and produced more literary art? Part of me is scared to read her books. Two women from completely different generations. Both struggling with Bipolar. The bitch of a disease that torments me. It has its good sides and its downsides. She didn’t live and I’m still here.
When I see the words they work together with brilliant light as the correct words snap into place. Writing for me is like a puzzle that illuminates when I have a correct sentence. Adverbs? I don’t overdo it with the adverbs. Two adverbs in a row is just too much. Are there enough commas? Did I put in the correct verbs and nouns? Did I use pronouns? When I write a correct sentence, it flashes in my head like a game you see when you put the correct puzzle pieces together.
Some people adore my books. I still have that tiny little seed of doubt. I’m worried it will grow and control me like it did in the past. It grows and grows until it becomes this large black abyss. Sucking me in to its world. Devouring me until there is nothing left. That doubt keeps me up at night. It makes me throw up. I hate it when it controls me. It turns me into that hideous beast in the corner of a room. Guarding, snapping, and snarling beast. The skinny, sunken, nasty long hair, with daggers for fingers. Sharp fangs ready to snap. That is the darkness and she is a bitch. An evil deceptive bitch. She coils around me like a slithering snake. That is the demon, I’m fighting. She hates me and everything about me. She hates that I love and that I’m nice. She’s sitting there, mocking me and everything I do. If I could throw holy water on her and make her disappear, I would in a heartbeat.
There is another side to me. The innocent child still remains. She is full of hope and love. Her blond hair sparkles from the sun. She’s dancing around the demon full of wonder and cheer. So good that she doesn’t know that the world is full of hate, anger, and despair. She doesn’t care. Her eyes reflect chocolate hue with light in them. She is naive and oblivious to the world around her. She is skipping along and she’s happy. The joy of celebrating my books makes her happy. She tells me to believe in myself and I deserve happiness. Everything is going to be okay, you’re just having another bad day. We’ll start again tomorrow and the world won’t be as crazy as it is today. “Take a chance,” she says. “It will be okay,” she reminds me. “I am stronger than what I was and you are too,” she coos. Her little voice sounds like music from a jewelry box. It is priceless and reminds of chimes. She is unconditional love and moral support. “And this too, shall pass,” she reminds me.
Here I am, with two worlds tugging at me. I know I want to live. I don’t want to be like Woolf. Her outcome scares me. It’s that fear that drives me. I need to make it to the top of the large body of ocean. I don’t want those concrete blocks, dragging me back down again. It’s tied to my feet, trying to pull me under. Heavy blocks that don’t want me to survive. But I must survive. I will survive. Even in my unstable and unimaginable world, I must survive. I must breathe and try harder with everything I am. I am love, understanding, empathy, compassion, and sensitivity. I am stronger than this. I am the hope that flickers like the light from a lighthouse. We can do this. We will do this.