It’s January 16, 2018.
I have promised my husband that I will stop reading self-help books this year.
I have been devouring self-improvement for the last 10 years and I’m scared of what will happen to me if I let my consciousness venture away from the pursuit of personal perfection.
I have to laugh at that.
Self help books have not brought me any closer to ‘perfection’. If anything, they have illuminated the vast distances I still must travel to even scratch the surface.
The honest to god truth is that these books are my little comfort blankets. As long as I am in the middle of one, I can’t be expected to really make any changes now, can I? I’m still in the learning phase, after all. I can curl up into them, rub my warm cheek against them, let them keep me safe from whatever lies beyond the starting line.
They keep me in denial. This way, I never actually have to do the work to grow.
I think this journal entry is a good sign. I have done an awful lot of reading about writing to avoid the act of putting pen to page.
It’s a Tuesday. I’m tired and cranky, but here I am writing something.
I do miss them though.