Writing is the free therapist that we all have

After a ridiculously long hiatus of sorts, I find myself coming back to my second love…writing. My first love was books of course, what with the vast adventures you can have from the comfort of your warm blankets and soft lighting. But ever since I learned how to put letters into words and words into sentences, writing came as naturally to me as breathing. When other kids were struggling to make up all the words for the 500 word essays assigned to us, I was struggling to condense everything I had to say into the maximum allotted. Which is not to say I was (or am) a good writer, because I am not. Not even a little, or in any sense of the word. I just throughly enjoy it, and I have never had a problem putting my jumbled thoughts into (mostly) readable writing.

I didn’t completely stop over the last couple of years of course. There is a plethora of unfinished, un-posted, rambling posts that have been saved. There are various journals, slips of paper, post-its, and backs of envelopes that have a few lines here and there of my thoughts. And most recently, my Happy Planner has been occasionally filled with musings, goals, and things I noticed and found funny and/or notable. But all this time I’ve still somehow felt like I’d shoved my writing under a table and hadn’t looked at it in a while. I was an active blogger all through my teenage years, it was my outlet to the teenage angst and depression that I was in at the time. That was my main medium. For years I wrote articles, posts, and stories. Built up a tiny bit of a following, made some friends through it, and it made me happy that people (even a small number of people) found me interesting enough to subscribe. Then all of a sudden, I stopped.

I tried to get back into it after a bit of course. I privatized my old blog and created a new one (this one) to start afresh, and did get around to posting a few things here and there. But generally, I just couldn’t do it. I felt dumb and ridiculous and my mind kept saying “oh stop it, why would anyone want to read your rants and stupidity anyway.” So I stopped, and the more I neglected blogging, the more I felt distanced from that part of me. Thinking of sitting down and typing something out, or writing something out, gave me more anxiety and guilt than anything else.

Since I haven’t really writing anything, my mood and personality has gradually changed. I’ve lost feeling of contentment in my life. I’ve become dissatisfied with my thoughts and who I am. My mind feels jumbled and unfocused and I find myself keeping busy with watching TV or immersing myself into conversations with people about their lives. Mine is something I don’t want to talk to people about, mainly because I feel that if I haven’t sat down and rationalized things myself, what on earth am I going to tell people. I’ve shoved my feelings down and it’s made me a miserable person.

In retrospect, my anxiety and depression have probably been legitimate problems, a fact that my own brain couldn’t (and mostly still can’t) handle accepting. I’m a Psych major (as laughable as most people find that, I actually love Psychology and intended to become a Psychologist, but thats a story for another day) and even after learning and knowing the symptoms and whatnot I kept saying to myself that there’s no reason for me to be sad and scared and dissatisfied with who I was. That my mild to moderate panic attacks over small things weren’t really panic attacks. That the feeling of a weight being on my chest and the feeling of doom and unhappiness were ridiculous, and that I was being such a selfish stupid girl for feeling like that when there are so many people suffering from real problems all over the world. Objectively, I know that thinking like that was/is unhealthy, and that it probably stopped me from seeking help when I needed it most. But I kept saying to myself if I could just bring myself to write what was happening in my head, I’d feel better.

After accepting it was happening, seeking a bit of counseling, and starting to journal properly again, I’ve surprisingly been feeling better. I’ve managed to get a lot of my feelings down on paper, so I can visually look at them and start to work through them. And after coming to terms with a lot of things, I finally summoned the courage to write and post this.

I need to get over my fear of getting back into this. I need to allow myself to feel confident and sure in what I have to say, even if it is irrelevant to most people. I need the comfort of writing again. While I am a very spiritual girl, and my relationship with God is my greatest comfort, writing needs to be a part of my life again. And as ridiculous as it sounds, the only medium that has ever truly worked for me is a blog. So here I am. Regardless of who, if anyone, reads any of this ever…it is going to help me to heal and become completely comfortable with who I am again.


I only barely proofread this post, which should bother me but surprisingly it doesn’t. I feel so happy at the prospect of blogging about my comically normal and boring life. I can’t wait to be me again.