I’ve always been a writer. For as long as I can remember, writing has come easily to me. It’s therapeutic. I write when I’m sad. I write when I’m angry. I write when I’m lonely. I write when I’m trying to figure something out. For the first time in my life though, I feel like I can’t write. I have so many thoughts and emotions mixing themselves up in my brain but I can’t seem to get them to come out. Perhaps the worst part is that I don’t want them to come out. I feel like the flow of creativity has been turned off, or at least slowed to a trickle.
What once came so easily is now a struggle. I struggle to translate my feelings into words but more frustratingly, I struggle to get anything down on paper.
I miss writing because it’s what I’ve always turned to when I needed help but at the same time I don’t miss it because it doesn’t feel the same as it once did. It no longer provides that creative release that I used to crave. I was feeling similarly four months ago when I wrote my last post but I chalked it up to anxiety. Maybe it’s not anxiety. I’ve been so focused on trying to get whatever “it” was back but maybe I don’t need “it”. Perhaps writing was a coping mechanism for me that has lost some of its magic.
Perhaps I need to stop thinking of writing as something therapeutic and start thinking of it as a hobby because while every blog post might not always serve some profound purpose or help me discover a revelation about myself, I still thoroughly enjoy it. I enjoy seeing my thoughts flow across the screen, thoughts that didn’t exist before I made them a reality. I like to create things and writing is no different.
I started this blog as a means to share the psychological aspects of chronic illness with my friends and family but what I’ve discovered is that I didn’t totally understand it myself. I didn’t know what was in store (and I still don’t) but I thought that I did. I thought I knew how I felt about this disease and about life but the universe proves me wrong nearly every day.
Being wrong can sometimes be extremely righting though.
I sought to explain myself to others but what I found was a little piece of myself that I didn’t know was there. Without my writing I’ve been sort of coaxed into exploring new methods of sharing my feelings and as a result, I’ve seen some positive changes in my life and in my relationships with others that I didn’t even know were possible.
I’ve learned that true friendship and true love does not judge. I’ve learned that honesty is always the best policy, even when it’s scary. I’ve learned that sometimes you have to hurt in order to heal.
Thank you Mother Earth/God/Father Time/universe, for forcing me in a new direction.