As a participant in the Mark Program, one of my responsibilities is to post a weekly entry on this blog. Inevitably I leave it until the last possible minute, which is an accurate reflection on my entire writing life. I’ve said this before: I loathe writing, but love having written. Here we are again.

Today I had a painful exchange with a woman I met over the weekend. Oh, wait, here’s the other thing. PEN has asked that I steer my posts to topics that include the writing process. I wish I could. Or, I’m going to try. But I still have to find my way in with what’s going on in my life. So, today, I had a painful exchange with a woman I met over the weekend.

I was invited to an event at a friend’s house. There was a woman there I’d never met before. She was older, smiling, eager to be a part of the conversations that naturally spring up at these things. Something about her rubbed me the wrong way. For the record, a lot of things rub me the wrong fucking way. I carry a whole Skycap’s cart of baggage around with me everywhere I go. I’m like a cartoon dog, crouched in the corner, growling. I’m profoundly aware of it, and not proud of it. I don’t want it to define me, and yet it does.

This woman was sweet, but snarky, and she couched every barbed witticism in a sweet smile and a nervous aside. “Just kidding,” she said. “Teasing,” she said. Or she’d push a forefinger into her cheek and, literally, bat her eyes. I chafed, but I said nothing. Big mistake. When I let things fester, they become pus-filled and lethal.

When I got home, I saw she’d tried to friend me on Facebook. I ignored it. The next day there was a message. “I admire your Sasha Fierce,” she said. “Not soul mates, but friends?” An olive branch, yet still I fumed. I hit reply without the benefit of a cooler head. And I let her fucking have it with both barrels. I’ll spare you my ugly diatribe, but trust me, it was much bigger than the situation warranted. Immediately, I was remorseful. I emailed a couple of friends, the cooler heads I should have consulted before I responded.

“I've been researching Buddhism for the past three days for an essay I'm working on,” my friend said. “So I'm coming at this with truckloads of compassion: I don't think [redacted] deserved that. We can all be annoying. She reached out and you bit her.”

You know what? My friend was totally fucking right. I am a giant puffer fish, swelling to five times my normal size to ward off a perceived threat. And while it served me for many years while I protected myself from abusive people, it is now ruining my life.

This is the part where I bring it back to writing. I’m writing a memoir. It’s my obligation to bring truth to the page. I’ve always tried to be completely truthful, yet I’ve cloaked it in humor, metaphor, and objective correlative. I’m not sure that’s a bad thing, but my mentor is asking me to leave all that aside and look for the places to show what I want in every scene. You know what I want? I want to be loved. I want to be understood. I want my mommy. I want to fucking kill you. I want to fucking kill myself. I want a pony. I want a new drug. I want to be sedated. I want you to want me. I want to make a fucking difference.

I feel like someone is about to push me off a cliff. In the past five weeks, I’ve developed a host of physical ailments: my back went out; I’ve had a persistent headache for three weeks; my ears pound with the pulse of my blood, louder than a helicopter, from the time I wake up until I fall into a fitful sleep at night.

Last week, I cried (again) when he sent me back to the page to dig deeper. I’m already hitting bone.

My mid-project review is looming in a few weeks. If I happen to meet you in the interim, I’d like to pre-load an apology. I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.