A little more time to breathe

Well court went as well as to be expected. Joe Arpaio will have a couple of days with me. Not long enough to effect me though, or to join a gang. I let some people know about this blog and in my own style I reread my previous post. Immediately I felt a huge wave of fear hit my body. This is too personal. My thoughts are wrong and bad and I should not express them. There goes that naked feeling again. I have always thought it would be amazing to be a writer. As a young child I would constantly read any bit of mystery of thriller I could find. Stephen King is a BIG NO NO, but I could easily get into his books and I enjoyed them. After marriage and children, I seem to only find interest in autobiographies or biographies. I guess I feel like I am living reality and want to read about how other people navigate through their life. (also the reason I watch every dumb reality show that exists) Anyway, back to my love of writing. I read these books and I think, wow, these people can put their thoughts down on paper! They make sense and they are amazing! I had no idea other people had the same thoughts and feelings I have had. It makes the world a little less lonely I suppose.
I used to write a lot as a child. I made up short stories all the time. Then I slowly went on to writing my own novels on the twenty year old DOS computer we had. Nothing ever got saved. As fashion in my family the computer broke down before anything was put into a baby book. I then switched to journals. Issue with this? There was a false sense of privacy in my home. A locked diary was also known as an unlocked diary that was left out "accidentally" (to the most embarrassing page coincidentally) on the kitchen counter. I heard every excuse in the book. "It was left out, I didn't mean to read it", "the cleaning lady found it and was worried that you had a crush on a boy", "I thought it was the electricity bill". All the time the bobby pin used to pry it open lay nicely in the garbage. This caused an immense issue with feeling out of control. Maybe I thought that I could take control by the only means I had "control" over. My body.