Have you ever started reading a book and halfway through said to yourself, "Oh my God, I cannot continue reading this book. I HATE the main character"?
I did that this weekend. I started reading and the more I read the angrier I got. I actually became furious, even a bit shaky. I looked at the words and felt sick. I felt like throwing the whole thing in the trash and just being done with it. I love books and cannot imagine throwing a book in the trash. I can't imagine giving up halfway through...the only time I ever did that was recently when I was reading "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas". It pained me to do that as I love Hunter S. Thompson. But I couldn't get through it, and the book I was reading this weekend I couldn't get through either.
The problem is, I suppose, that this is a book that I am writing.
And I, unfortunately, am the main character.
I hate myself in this book. I hate this person from ten years ago. I hate how pathetic she is. How weak. How sad. I read and I feel sick. I feel like this can't be me. This can't be real.
It's real, though. The truth sucks.
Big Jim said things like, "Think about what your choices were" and "Think about how far you've come". He's right, he makes sense, but it doesn't always help. I told him how hard this is and how I'm angry all over again and he said, logically, "You aren't angry again Stephanie. This is the first time you've allowed yourself to be angry".
And I am. He is right. He's almost always right about me.
It's funny. I was so worried that about Jason. His feelings and how he would be portrayed. How twenty-three year old Jason would look to the world, when twenty-three year old Jason isn't thirty-three year old Jason. Not even close.
What I should have been worried about is how twenty-four year old Stephanie looks to thirty-three year old Stephanie.
It's not pretty.