I worry too much. I worry about everything and everyone. I obsessively check on people to make sure they're okay, I feel like it's my responsibility to make them feel better if they're upset or disappointed or in pain. I do everything conceivable in my power to spend my energy on them and as a result I have nothing left for myself.
My writing suffers because of it. I spread myself so thin you can't taste the butter on your toast that is me. You can't even tell it's butter. The reality is harsh. By trying to make those around me happy I rob myself of the same. I get unhappy and tired and irritable and ultimately my body tells me, "Fuck you, asshole," and makes me sick. Just to show me who the boss is.Read More