Killing my creativity

I admit, my favourite word is “worry”. Even when all is well with the world I will worry about the cloud, rather than celebrate the silver lining. The pills are great at helping me cope. I feel emotions less sharply. Hurt that would previously have torn my soul to shreds I can now ride out on a wave of deep breathes. It still hurts. Like when I see him with her, the smirk across her exotic features rips me like claws across my throat and chest. The way he turns to pretend he didn’t see me burns in my stomach like only humiliation can.

But I breath. I don’t cry. And why should I cry? He doesn’t deserve my tears.

When I had to suffer a drive home, listening to another woman rave about how wonderfully supportive my husband was at treating all her intimate, physical aches. I didn’t cry. I smiled in mild amusement.

I quite enjoy the bubble wrap around my heart. But then on the flip side I worry. I worry whether my chemically numbed receptors are responsible for killing my creativity. Because I feel less sharply I can’t write or describe accurately what I feel.
 

I’m not done here. Proving my point too actually. I know there’s more I want to say on the topic but the thought and the words are somewhere just out of reach. Bitch.