Posts Tagged ‘writing’

I have always kept a journal. You should see them, my teenage years jotted down in so many different gel tipped inks. I was impulsive and boy crazy and free. I wrote everything that came to my mind, there was no censorship in the tattered wire bound books that I hid in my room.

As I got older and moved out of my parent’s home I still wrote. It wasn’t a daily journal at that point, but more of an event recorder. When I was through the roof happy? I wrote. When I was scraping myself off the floor of addiction and depression? I wrote then too.

I don’t have a tangible journal anymore. I just have this blog. I think that needs to change. There are things that I need to get out. Things that wouldn’t be fair to put here…because it isn’t just about me. Things that are brewing and threatening to overflow if I don’t release some of the pressure. This blog isn’t always a happy place, my life isn’t unicorns and rainbows…but sometimes you just need a place to put your thoughts that aren’t fully formed. A place to work out what you are actually thinking. This isn’t that place to me.

This is the place for me to share my life and my stories and my opinions. A place to show support to my friends and have some fun. A place to ask for help sometimes too.

So I am going to go buy a notebook, wire bound preferably. I am going to sit down and just write. Screw punctuation and grammar and spell check. There is a huge jumbled mess in my head that needs to come out.

I’m going to let it out.

I don’t write anymore.

This isn’t writing, at least not for me. I used to really write. It was effortless, my pen would touch my notebook and the words would pour out of me. I would read it over and almost not believe that the perfectly intertwined thoughts had actually made their way out of my head.

I miss it. I think a lot about what has changed, why I can’t ever seem to make anything sound right to me. Sometimes I think it is because I rarely sit down with pen and paper. Sometimes I think it is because I don’t get any time to really sit and think.

Mostly I think it is because I am happy.

The writing that I am most proud of came during some of my darkest times. It was born of heartbreak and misery. It was written with tears in my eyes and a shaking hand. It was written in fierce anger, my teeth tearing at my bottom lip. It was written faster than I even knew I was thinking, my mind almost numb while tying to protect itself.

I don’t live with those feelings that inspired some of my best anymore. I have put them behind me, not forgotten but closed in a room I have no reason to visit.  I am not on a ship in a rocky sea, trying so hard to hang on. I am stable and I have both my feet planted on solid ground. I am happy. I am loved.

It’s a fair trade, but I still miss it.