A few days ago, I was ahead on my writing goals. Now, I can't bring myself to open the word doc.
My hands are cold and shaky. The blood has gone to my heart and my stomach in a warm wave in preparation for a fight or flight response. I think that, even though my mind has accepted the outcome, my body is undergoing some kind of prolonged shock response.
Sometimes, escaping into the creation of a fictional world is helpful. It's a distraction. Right now, I'm not sure I can create that distraction for myself. The effort, vulnerability, creativity, and stamina needed to create a thing seem beyond my reach at the moment. The emotional wherewithal to stave off the inevitable self-hatred that comes with first-drafting is something that I don't know I can muster.
A bunch of people across the country just said, "You're worthless," when they voted to elect Donald Trump. Hillary Clinton has told me that I represent the best of America, that I'm valuable and deserving of every chance in the world to pursue and achieve my own dreams. For what it's worth, I know the slim majority agrees with Hillary, since she won the popular vote. But the tension between what the two of them have said is mentally immobilizing me.
It's hard to create right now.