A little over three years ago, I stopped, cold turkey. It was a useless drug really. Spinning round and round in circles, like the way some people like to define crazy. Doing the same thing over and over expecting a different outcome.
That was when I had to stop.
I had been writing since my youth.
I used to collect diaries. When I was 5, I just liked how pretty they were. I felt so special, having this pint sized book, with lock and key.
When I was 12, I began writing incessantly in my then, much cooler, journals.
No need for lock and key (except for the fact that my mom would in fact read them if left anywhere in the open).
I incessantly wrote because there seemed to be no where else to turn.
I did not feel comfortable sharing all my curiosities, anxieties, and hurts with anyone in my family and friends felt to fragile.
So I wrote. As the temperature rose in my little life. Fear of puberty and how it was going to destroy my life, saddness and confusion over my first knee injury that laid way for 5 surgeries over the next 5 years, anger about not being able to control my body which spiraled into 15 years of Bulimia......
You get the picture. And so I wrote, incessantly, hoping for a different outcome.
At the age of 27, when I finally realized, I was writing the same thing over and over again in hundreds and thousands of pages, I put the pen down, cold turkey.
It is like a drug I abused heavily, I was repulsed by writing.
Feeling no connection, no need for it. I put it away, like I never knew it.
As a source of expression, I thought this a little weird, but you cannot help what you feel, even if it doesn't make sense. And that may be one of the most valuable voices I began to listen to, to date.
So here is where the page is turned, where I pick up the pen again, where I share what comes naturally to me, where I share myself.
Join me as I journey through, life, anew.
In the words of Mary Oliver, "Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"
