Writing can be therapeutic, but if I’m honest, sometimes I step right into the shit on purpose and I don’t hate it. Looks like I’m circling the drain again.

Recently, I was talking about how writing about my childhood and family affects me. I mostly feel sad and guilty, just like I did then. But I also feel that writing helps. 

It puts things into context, lets me record my feelings, and helps me acknowledge the past while trying to build a better future.

But what I feel most right now is vindicated, like I’m getting back at them. Even if they never read what I write, and they probably don’t, other people are reading it.

I need to work on that. I know it’s not good. But damn it, I can’t help it. So I look in the mirror and ask the question I already know the answer to:

Am I doing this to hurt them, to keep hurting myself, or both?

Damn it. Five steps forward. Ten steps back.

But if I’m being honest, I think I’ll just drag myself through this bit of shit for a while. I’m already in it.