Get Your Antique Punching Bag Here

Yesterday I wrote the introduction to my book.  I haven’t reread it yet; I sent it to a friend on a message from beyond that told me to, terrified out of my gourd, asking her to please read it and tell me I wasn’t crazy.  At that point I was only about halfway through, and she told me I wasn’t crazy in not so many words.  So I sent her the whole introduction when I was done, after I told her I guess she is my test reader.

She hasn’t replied yet, and I’m trying not to do the whole Imposter Syndrome freakout because she is a total night owl, but inside there is a gibbering maniac trying to flay my soul from the inside out, because I really am crazy and I have the documents to prove it.

I tell my husband all the time that the best gift he could give me are the actual, literal Arkham Asylum Inmate Certificates that the HP Lovecraft Society sells.  He always forgets.

Writing what I wrote yesterday was just as emotionally grueling as I knew it would be.  Just as psychically exhausting.  Just as spiritually corrosive.  Just as physically painful.  I felt like one of those old timey punching bags by the end of the day.  Brown, stained leather.  Nasty leather full of blood and sweat and grime just caked into that ancient cured flesh.  Leather that has been punched and pummeled so many times it’s cracked and splintered and feathered to seamed, soft aged shapelessness.  A punching bag suspended from it’s anchor and chains with a sad, pitiful sighing despair because it’s just DONE IN.  Oozing stuffing at the seams because it can’t hold it’s guts in anymore, but it’s casing is so hard and tough it does it anyway, because that’s it’s purpose.  I was that ancient old timey punching bag last night.  I finished my writing and just lay here on my couch and puddled, stupefied.

But it felt good, in spite of all that.  Because for the first time I got some stuff out all together in one place in a mostly coherent and linear way.  I felt cleansed of something rotten, and by cleansing myself of it I felt I was giving a gift.  I feel I have already given many, many gifts: the greatest being my children.  My children have grown into glorious adults, and are continuing to grow more glorious every day…in spite of making mistakes.  Their mistakes, and how they learn from them, make them even more glorious.  Look at my precious gifts, how they bloom in fire and water!  And last night, even in my gross punching bag state, I still felt like I was giving a gift.  It was a nothing, really, a bad spot of word vomit, but still something.

If I don’t DARE, I’ve spent my life being a hypocrite.  Even if it’s bad, at least I dared.

Published by: The Science Witch

Witchery is science, and science is witchery.  My journey through this mortal coil is nothing more than transforming myself from one state to another.  Through that transformation I transform others; I also transform the world around me.  I do this through various means that can be considered arcane: my thoughts transform my very brain by way of electrical currents and chemical signals.  My hands transform my world through the actions of physics and chemistry by way of the magic of cooking and the application of the arcane potions of makeup and hairspray.  My actions nurture or destroy by way of kindness or apathy or discipline.  Of myself or others.  This blog is all about that.  And the story behind how I found all of it out...

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