I don't remember a time when I wasn't questioning things (I imagine my mother would agree.) I was a talkative child, always processing things I didn't understand out loud. We had long conversations in the car about complicated subjects like race and sexuality and faith on the way to elementary school.
Something about hearing the words was affirming to me, as if I were making progress simply by asking the questions. Solid answers were never necessary.
This has followed me into my writing. It's a tragic flaw-- a gift, because there's always more to understand, but a curse, because I'm exhausting company.
All that to say I'm finally doing the work. Not in a "yeah girl, do work!" kind of way, but in the way that involves a lot of heart and a lot of tears and a lot of standing up to big things and screaming at them until they back down.
Now, more than ever, I'm craving answers. WHY did these things happen to me? WHERE does this all fit in my story? WHO will I ever love as much as I loved my ex-husband? HOW will I even bring myself to date again? WHEN will I get to the other side of this? WHO will be left when I do?