Two years ago today, I released a little passion project called Empath. Nicknamed the “anxiety dragon” book, Empath was less about “what’s popular” and more about pouring my loneliness and ache for home into something else so it would leave me. I’d become overwhelmed with my anxiety, which flares and spirals like a dragon in my mind. I wanted to write the things I could never say to my ex because I was too scared to. To write the things I could never say period because I was too scared to.
And that’s how that little dragon book came to be.
Trudging through the Pain
I hated writing Empath. To be fair, I was pretty unhappy at that point. It was the last quarter of 2014, and I had made the decision to move to Pensacola, but unable to do so for another eight months. I had grad school to pay back, a house to sell, and a career to relocate. There was still a question if this craziness was going to actually happen.
And life in DC was miserable. People often wonder why I have such bad things to say about the city, but in truth, it left a sour taste in my mouth. Every morning, I’d hop on the metro to a job I hated and hold my breath as the train would pass by my ex’s house. Would today be the day I ran into him? Was he still with his new girlfriend? Would they already be engaged? There was no escaping this morning and afternoon ritual.
There was also this crushing loneliness. Most of my friends had abandoned me in DC after I’d gone through my quarter-life crisis. The rest of my support system was a thousand miles away, and I couldn’t get there.
And the cherry on top was how this book screwed with my mental health. Forcing myself to write scenes where Lauren couldn’t breathe would trigger my own sympathetic response. Chronicling her musings about her ex (taken from my own memories), would leave me exhausted and miserable. In order to write her pain, I had to experience it.
What I Needed
Way back before the quarter life crisis, I refused to admit there was a problem in my life. I avoid pain and misery like the plague, and to accept this new reality would hurt like a son of a bitch. Although I’d gone to therapy, which lead to the rediscovery of writing as my self-care, I still hadn’t dealt with my pain. Writing Empath was spending three grueling months underwater in my grief and misery. And when I reached the end, I was clean.
But it gets the most feedback. I received a five-page fan letter from a girl who was so moved by the book, she bought two more copies to share with the troubled girls she mentors. For a book that was written so closely to my own unique experience, it’s strangely a universal story. In some way, that makes those with whom it resonates feel a little less alone.
I like to think everything happens for a reason. Had I not gotten this urge to write a book about my pain and misery, I might still be holding onto it. Changing location doesn’t solve a problem, although it can aid the solution. Because I’d written Empath, I was ready to move on, for real. When I arrived in Pensacola, I was ready to live a beautiful life. And life really is beautiful.
So happy book birthday, my little book. Here’s to many more years of breaking feels–and slaying fears.