I’m writing a long piece about my childhood upbringing, how constant conflict with my father shaped who I am today and led to the choices I made in raising my kids.

It is very emotional. It is pretty draining. And I am exhausted from trying to relive the past in my mind as I work out the details. My husband is also tired of me talking it out with him. Earlier, he asked, half-joking, “Do you have any other stories??”

No, I don’t. At least not for now. This is an extended essay that’s been on my mind for over three weeks. Draft, after draft. Discussion, over discussion. Rewrites and rearranging. I’ve gotten such great direction and coaching that I have a good feeling this could end up in a solid article I’ve been meaning to write for years.

If only I could stop fighting myself and being so frightened of it. I’ve been procrastinating on this so much these past weeks. My insides are in knots as I work on the piece, both excited and anxious at the same time. It feels like releasing a scream that’s been held inside for so long that I can’t just easily let it go. I’m afraid to shatter my fragile outside world with it, unsure of its intensity. I think I’m more fearful of what I might find.

But I just know I have to get this done. I took this writing course specifically to write about this story, to use this medium as therapy. I know I’ve always wanted to write about this, and not necessarily to share. I want to figure out my internal story about my childhood and see how I can come to terms with it.