Now that I have finished the two drafts of my novels (one is ‘ready’ for submission—the other Chad is still reading for me to give me his feedback), I have been reading the book about how to get your book published. It has always been a scary thing, but it is overwhelming at the moment. I feel like I am crazy even trying. I know it is a lot of my ‘issues’ and maybe not reality, but still…
Everything from the past keeps running through my mind. I was so sure that Grandma was going to be healed from cancer, that she would live, that God had spoken to me and confirmed it. I was planning on living the rest of my life with Chad, having him call me husband, having him beside me as I went through this process, so sure he truly loved me. Obviously, there is a problem with my perception of reality. You can say it is the rest of the world’s problem only so long until you have to admit that it obviously is something about you or your discernment. I was so sure about both of them, and I am nowhere near as sure about this writing. It is tapping into my sense of rejection and unworthiness. If the love of my life doesn’t really love me or want me, why the fuck would some big-time editor give me a shot or even glance twice at me? Not to mention, I pictured this time of my life so differently. Chad believed (or at least seemed/s to believe) in my writing probably more than anyone else. I want him by my side as I write these letters, as I get the rejection responses, and maybe get a letter saying they will publish my manuscript. We could jump up and down screaming, go out to dinner, kiss and make love in celebration. Between the two, of course, I would pick life with Chad over life as an author any day. Any day. It was obviously too much to hope for to have both, and now it seems too much to hope for to have either. However, just like part of me has not been able to let go of some fucked-up twisted hope that Chad will change his mind, I cannot let go of the dream of being a writer. I can’t just cut off my feelings and not keep part of my heart available for Chad should he want it, nor can I just throw away all the work and dreaming of writing for fear of being rejected once more. Part of me wonders if I simply enjoy the drama, enjoy the pain. Maybe what makes me feel special is this—that I get to play the victim. If I didn’t, then surely, I would quit loving and hoping for Chad, quit trying to be something more than what I am. Quit the damned crying. What makes me think I can be something most people don’t get to be? What makes me think I will have a love that lasts that is beyond what most people experience? Maybe it narcissism or sadomasochism. Maybe I am the larva that dreams of being a butterfly, refusing look at my reflection to see the maggot and the fly that will be the future.
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