"You've got too much, man."
Three weeks later, I'm still processing that.
Years of shit I'd been swallowing. Grief, pride, heartbreak, love, death. I'd been pushing so long, something snapped.
So I broke. In writing. In life.
I stayed busy. Avoided mirrors. Avoided thinking. Then my body made the choice for me. Every Wednesday when my kid wasn't here, I'd fall apart. Like clockwork.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to The Talentless Writer to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.