After you've stared at something long enough for your eyes to cross, have you ever experienced a pulsating tick? I'm sure you have. But has that pulsating tick ever felt disgustingly pleasurable?
My therapist told me that taking pleasure from something that tortures me makes me a masochist.
Well, she used other words that sounded a lot more scientific and demeaning. But, it works.
I didn't have the heart to tell her that gluttony was my favorite sin. I couldn't destroy her great hopes for me and my recovery.
Yes, my recovery. I torture myself, and I love it. I stare and stare and stare, willing reality to pop out of my imagination. But nothing happens. I only experience a tick. A small spasm inside my skull that I never want to end.
I just look at the blank page. And freeze. All I want is words to pour out of me, and all I need is the tick. Once it starts, I bury myself in it. Time passes. And I call it a night.
My therapist and my editor want me to move on, but I need it. I need the chemical imbalance. I need the thrill.
Without it, I'm no more than a writer who is terrified to write.
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