Haymarket stressings.

I'm trying to pound out a personal essay at the Haymartket in Northampton. It's a lovely place with antique everything and old wood. Also they have Virgil's soda and really good coffee. I figured it would be helpful to be in a ridiculously pleasant environment while I write this essay that might be the definition of triggering.

It's for my Therapeutic Writing class. I have to write my Writing Autobiography. I tried to write it the other night for the class workshop but I ended up in tears at 2am in my living room. So I went to class without an essay, and realized that one of the most wonderful things about Hampshire is that there's not only always someone weirder than you, but there's also always someone less prepared for class than you. So while everyone else was workshopping their pieces, I met with three other ladies who didn't have essays to workshop. We had a really nice talk about writing and why we do it and why it's so hard to write about why we do it.

I've been writing for my whole life, because it's basically the only thing I feel I both love and am good at. So why wouldn't I write? It's my refuge at this point. I'm really at my happiest when I'm writing something I love. It's also tied up in pretty much every painful experience of my life, so it's really, really hard to write about my history with writing without remembering those experiences. It's also really stressful when, in order to hand this essay in on time, I have to write it regardless of what it triggers.

But I'll do it. As hard as it is, I think it's important to know where you've come from and what tough stuff has made you who you are. If my life were all roses, I'd be the worst, most unrelatable writer in the world.