Hitting the Wall

Writing this book was the biggest mistake of my life. If I could go back in time, I'd pistol whip my past self for even trying.

Christ, how the hell do people do this more than once?

I've written other stories, but this fucking thing has me crawling through fucking mental lava right now. Every time I flip open this damn laptop and look at that cursor, I get another round of self-inflicted mind fucking that I'm personally responsible for, and I'm left wondering: Why am I doing this to myself?

Maybe because the story is so damn personal. Is that why I'm having such a hard time?

It's not writer's block. Fuck no. I wish it was writer's block. I wish I didn't know what happens next. No, the words are there, I'm just ...fuck...I guess I'm scared to see them written down. I'm scared to see all the ugly thoughts I think about all freed up into existence for any random person to see.

My fingers won't type. No. That's not it. I'm typing now, but I don't know. Shit. I don't know. Maybe I'm a fucking coward? Is that it? Fine. I'm a coward. I'm a coward and I'm not ashamed of saying it. I am. I'm a fucking coward.

I keep trying to find the rage that started this whole damn thing. It fucking consumed me. I was ready to inflict hurt the way I was hurt. I wanted certain people to feel a fraction of the shame and heartbreak they caused me. Seventeen months ago, my heart was a cauldron full of awful acid. The need to see them suffer was frightening. I didn't recognize myself in the mirror.

As the months passed, I got a lot of that bitter hate down on paper.

But I'm not sure if that passion got smothered by all the words I've written down. That vengeful fire is elusive to me now. I feel as lost and vulnerable as an orphaned elephant wandering the desert searching for the jungle.

I shouldn't be here. This part of the story, it just fucks with my head. If I wrote it down...fuck. What the fuck is wrong with me that I even want to share this shit?

I am trying dictation. I figure if my fingers won't type, maybe my mouth can do it for me. It's not going a well as I'd hoped.

I don't know how else to describe this. I'm going to try. It feels like there's a fucking boulder in my head. Like I can't go around it or crawl under it. The only way through is the pound the shit out of it until it crumbles. But I am so tired right now. Not physically, like emotionally? No, ...it's more than that. Like I'm tried of baring my vein and bleeding the words into these damn pages. Each time I do it it's exhausting and painful.

I am so close to the end. Why won't I just do it? Write what happened. This is just your head fucking with you. Just do it. I don't want to work on this shit anymore. I'm done thinking about it from all these damn angles. There are other projects just waiting for me. Goddammit, just pull an all nighter and send the last 50 pages in to Becky. It's taken almost 2 years of your damn life. Just do it already. Who the fuck cares if it's good or not? Just do it.

Just type until you write the last fucking words: THE END.

I swear, I'll hate myself if I don't do this tonight.