I’ve been struggling with a writing piece for weeks. I’ve avoided writing these words down for ten years, it’s like if seeing them on the page will make them more real and I’d rather them not be. The truth is, I am different, says my Soul, but to reconcile the Me today with the Me I was ten years ago is a hard restoration to make. The truth so convenient to reject: I am the same person. Many of the elements in this piece of writing I’ve written prior in a 4th Step, I’ve admitted them to another person in a 5th Step, but there was more. The More had been niggling and niggling, like a finger scratching at the same surface of my skin for years that it finally broke it open and I was left with gaping flesh I could ignore no longer. So I wrote it all down. I wrote it in a flurry of run-on sentences and memories that fade in and out, not really following any proper literary device, just an exorcism. Since it is about being a Mom and about my daughter specifically, the women of my writing class and I talked about burning it, deleting it from any digital trail, we talked about the honesty and how many Moms, specifically Moms that drink, it would potentially help. I don’t know yet what I’ll do with the piece, as it just rests on my harddrive, sighing out its very breath from just merely existing somewhere other than my guilted heart. I only know that it works. Writing it. Sharing it with someone else. It all works to make a heart I can live with. If you need to do the same, this is your permission.