No Good Ever Comes From Putting Up

I'm Just Like This. I Have No Talent For Choosing My Battles. Life Seems, Strangely, Like A Battle To Me. The Whole Thing.

To Be Silent. In Hopes Of Not Offending, In Hopes Of Being Accepted. But What Happened To People Who Never Spoke, Never Raised Their Voices? Kept Everything Inside? Gamache Knew What Happened. Everything They Swallowed, Every Word, Thought, Feeling Rattled Around Inside, Hollowing The Person Out. And Into That Chasm They Stuffed Their Words, Their Rage.

But, Like Peace, Comfort Didn't Come From Hiding Away Or Running Away. Comfort First Demanded Courage.

I Had To Learn Compassion. Had To Learn What It Felt Like To Hate, And To Forgive And To Love And Be Loved. And To Lose People Close To Me. Had To Feel Deep Loneliness And Sorrow. And Then I Could Write.

Every Decade Of My Life I Attempted To Write A Novel. But I Had Nothing To Say. I Was Far Too Self-absorbed, And Now I Realize I Was Writing For Others, So That They'd Applaud Me, See My Genius, Tell Me How Wonderful I Am, Or Be Jealous Of My Success.