Waiting Part 2: Fear and Pain and Rebuilding the Farmhouse
All I have to go on for this is my own experience, my own story that is still being scratched across history as we speak, bleating and wailing and ripping at the corners of me to get out. I don't know who reads this, or if anyone will. But more than anything I know it needs it's own space outside of me. I don't mean to undermine the realities of an eating disorder but dealing with language is a bulimic experience for me. When I read, it is with a voracious appetite; I consume quickly and without stopping. I become only a mouth that gobbles character development and plot lines and chomps desperately at everything within my line of vision. When I write, it is always a purge; it comes out in gasps and furious fingers that can't keep up. Writing is the experience of spilling out over and over until I'm empty. This pattern is compulsive. It's how I've always been, however, from the time I learned to read and sneaked chapter books under the classroom table an