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Writing doesn’t work for me anymore. The irony is that the only time I try anymore is when my brain is in the middle of working its way through a dense fog caused by overwhelm or basic hormones. But even without the fog, I don’t experience the same release that I used to rely on a few years ago. I was so sure then that writing was my only saviour from my head exploding with thoughts or my heart imploding from feeling. I was certain that being a writer was my destiny, that I couldn’t leave the Earth without sharing my stories but now it’s nearly useless to me; my stories don’t even feel important anymore.
I tried explaining this to my therapist when she asked me how much writing I was doing considering the tumultuous changes that have taken place in my life lately. She’s always encouraging me to journal or document the ebb and flow of my moods but there’s no sense in it now. When she asks me to write letters to the people that I have residual pain stored into, my response is always the same, “what’s the point if they’re never going to read it?” I communicate much better with written words but what is the point of pouring these burdens out on a page or in a document that will never be seen by another person. The lack of acknowledgement threatens to negate its existence.
I’m learning to sit with it now. There is no place in the world to hide your thoughts, they needed to be sifted through the mill just like everything else. Even the writing was some form of validation seeking. When I stopped, I began downloading my inner battles onto the people around me for exoneration. It didn’t take more than a few years to lose everyone to that. To me that’s what friends are for, until discovering I had zero understanding of what friendship is and to be honest, little desire for it upon this discovery. There’s been a long history of feeling like I’m too much for others so rather continue to fight to be understood or spend the energy attempting to prove my intentions are innocent, I surrender to the destiny that the universe has deemed better suited and continue forth internally.
It’s been a time of profound growth that doesn’t feel like growth. The more adult I become, the more I learn the lessons that have been told to me all along, things that felt like cynicism but in reality coincide with a world meant to do us no favours. The happy ending, for some, is the acceptance of standing alone, the understanding that reassurance is collateral and that most people speak in a language that is foreign to our perception. Writing doesn’t help me unfold the truth anymore, now I just know what the truth is. I’m so different than I used to be.
M.
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