It's time for me to get back to writing again. Yes, posting more often, but more importantly, writing for myself more often. I still have the journals I have actually finished--which takes me years, by the way--however, I seem to have lost the one I was writing in most recently. This has put a great damper on any efforts to start "journaling" again, as the mere thought of starting in another journal just feels so... wrong.
Yes, wrong. Like, morally wrong.
Yes, I know it's just a journal.
But I have this fear about leaving things unfinished.... so much so that I specifically enjoy finishing things (though you would never guess it by my bins and bags of half-done projects). As a kid I LOVED being the one to finish a carton of milk, or eat the last cucumber on the plate. [I didn't like finishing the cereal, though, with all the crumbs and sugar bits gunking up the milk...] For other things, there wasn't enjoyment in finishing something so much as relief that it wasn't looping through my mind again and again anymore. (These things were more social, like needing to finish conversations or feel there was an "end" to a friendship)
The problem enters when I can't finish something-- when I can't find my journal, when I can't seem to find the words to finish the essay, when the calls or texts don't get returned, when I can't articulate the thoughts in my head enough to back up my desire to say "no" so I say "okay" instead--
When the fairly neutral thoughts streaming on repeat through my mind turn into a cacophony of what feels like thousands of voices, each one spewing emotion and demanding my action
to fix it,
get the answer,
finish it,
call them,
find my journal,
mend it,
fix it,
text them,
close it,
get an answer,
find the problem,
mend it,
find my journal,
call again,
find the solution,
figure out what I fucked up,
to get any answer at all,
TO. FIND. MY. DAMN. JOURNAL.
Demanding my action to find it, so I can write instead of squeezing so tight and hoping answers and closure pop out. Not the kind of writing I type out, hit "publish" and send out, refined. No, it's the kind of writing that consists of chicken scratch letters forming words I couldn't get out of my head fast enough, of pen tip pressed hard to page, burying the imprint of my psyche deep into the pages below. The kind of writing that forces me to acknowledge at my thoughts on the page and then turn it. The kind that showed me that eventually the cacophony subsides again, that I am strong enough to be okay alone with my thoughts, to ride out the storm.
It's time for me to get back to journaling again.... so finally, I have started a new one.
