I’m not a good enough writer to write about my experiences with chronic pain. I’m not as good as Roxane Gay writing about being fat. I’m not as good as my best friend’s husband who has a book of poetry and a novel coming out from Penguin. I need to be that good to write about myself.
I haven’t reached a place in my relationship to pain where I actually have something useful to offer other people. I haven’t figured out how not to wish that my life were different. I haven’t figured out how not to be upset by pain. I haven’t figured out how to stop fighting what’s happening to me.
There are so many other things I should be doing, other than writing a blog. I don’t do them, but still.
Nobody will want to read about me.
There are already too many blogs and books and stories out there, written by people who are smarter or more awake or more confident or just plain better than I am.
I have shoulder pain that makes it hard to type. I am having it right now. I won’t be able to keep this up.
I am too obsessed with perfection. I will never post a post until it’s perfect so I’ll never do this blog.
Whew. It feels good to get that out.
