I’ve written this before. But I kind of need to reinforce it, in my head if nowhere else.
We are born, we live, we die. We endure. That’s what life is. Endurance. Not joy, not loveliness, not great. We get by, we die. Some people, the lucky ones, get to live a life that’s relatively unhurt. Where bad things happen at a distance. For most of us though, life has a rude habit of sneaking in, and wrenching our guts out. And if that happens when you are young, it changes everything. Because that’s how you see the world. You see your rightful inheritance as pain, as punishment, as what you deserve.
And every shitty little thing that happens to you afterwards? Your fault. You made that happen. You deserved that. You don’t deserve time, attention, love. I mean, ffs, who could love a malformed creature like you? A broken winged, hopeless, pathetic little thing like you? You get praise? It’s pity. You get ignored? What you deserve. A slap down? How the fuck could you ever think you have something to say?
I’ve been told off for calling myself a twatty blogger. But that is what I am. I have no ideas above my station. On the few occasions I’ve raised my head above the parapet, I have been shot down in no uncertain terms, and my defenders have chosen instead to massage the egos of others. I get no such consideration. So, when you tell me to think that I should call myself a writer, remember that. Words are great, but actions count for more. I am not a writer, never have been. Just a twatty blogger, making her way through the maze, and confronting hurt at every dead end.