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 [insert droll commentary here]

It's been almost a week and I haven't written in here. It's been a struggle to write in my daily journal. It has been hard to do any form of creative work. I have been actively avoiding my therapy journal because I feel like there's some kind of trauma memory trying to break through and it's always agony when that happens. I don't feel well right now. It's not depression. It's not my bipolar acting up. That's more or less under control right now. *knocks wood* 

I feel afraid that nothing I do is ever going to be good enough. I feel afraid that I am a fraud. I feel that my work as an author is ultimately as worthless as my parents deemed it when I was a kid. (Never mind that I got a royalty check for $16 to put towards charity based off of a project that I did last year.) I feel like I did when I was living in my parent's house. 

I don't know what is triggering these emotional flashbacks but they are persistent. My boys get home from school and I see my brothers whom I was supposed to look after but, paradoxically, not boss around. Nothing I did was ever good enough for my parents. My college graduation was more about the prestige they could claim by proxy than anything else. My mother claimed that the Sisters were telling her how she did such a good job raising me. (I know that was a straight up lie. The Sister that I introduced her to in that conversation said that she was sure that I was going to accomplish my goal of being a published author and that I had impressive talent.)

The time that I'm oriented correctly in the day is when I'm with Beloved. It's hard and getting harder. I don't know what to do about it. I've lost count the number of times where I've almost called my sons by my brothers' names. Medication can't fix this. I don't know what can.