I’m a writer, right? The most crucial factor to being a writer, in my opinion, is a strong inner voice. Oh you should hear the things that go on in my head! You’d be relieved with the head you’ve got on your own shoulders.

Normally, the thoughts that come are my friends. They’re funny and kinda brilliant. I can amuse myself endlessly. There are times when I’d rather be alone not because I’m afraid or annoyed by others but because I really have fun by myself. It’s gotta be someone I really dig to give up that precious time to myself.

This morning, I was finally able to tell my brain to be quiet. It didn’t listen, but I could at least stop it any time it started up. Such a relief!

I’m doing right by me. I’m taking care of the physical. Yesterday that meant a trip to the hematology clinic for iron and then a really not fun procedure at the urologist. I started crying as I got naked from the waist down and put a paper gown on.

Here’s the thing: I’m not a cryer. I’m a hardcore boss ass bitch. I get things done. I take risks. I aim to win. So who is this Weepy Wilma on a table with her legs in stirrups? It ain’t me.

I told Michael the other day that I haven’t been doing much boundary work lately. And I need to. I don’t just hear the thoughts in my head. I feel other people’s feelings and know things about them. It’s helpful when I need it, amusing when I don’t, but really a downer when their feelings become invasive. I’ve spent weeks now in doctors’ waiting offices exposed to a lot of emotions. Not all silent. At the free clinic on Fulton there’s actual screaming.

There’s a theory that this skill comes from a child who had to put someone else’s emotions before their own. Couldn’t tel you if it’s true. All I know is that I’ve got it. And it’s my job to ground myself.

This all sounds new agey but really it’s the oldest forces at work. My job is not to be timid, but to go out into the world prepared and ambitious.

When I’m ready. For now, it’s patience. It’s learning to trust the real me. Learning how to say less and sometimes just “No.” It’s recognizing that the life I built is a strange, unique, beautiful thing. It didn’t come ready made. I built it. Tear it down to the foundation and I’ll build another even stronger from the lessons I’ve since learned.

If I can start by quieting the voices that question that reality, find a little peace in the uncertainty, then I’m on my way. The rest is a leap of faith.

And also, take your own band aids to the hematology clinic. I have unicorns and rainbows and they don’t hurt nearly as much when I peel them off as the ones they have.