For starters, I’ll use this post for some therapeutic confession, if you will. I’m a writer — I do copywriting for a living, so I rarely have a shortage of words and ideas. But, when it comes to penning my pain, it’s like a bloody wrestling match.
I sometimes have this fear that whatever I write in my journal will make whatever I’m struggling with real if it’s not real yet, or more real than I feel able to cope with. Truthfully, I’m terrible at doing consistent therapeutic writing.
My other excuses include the things that fill up my time (and my mind) like parenting, homeschooling two young children, working full-time, and having a partner with life-threatening, untreatable heart failure. See why I should write more?
That said, there have been times in the past three years where I grabbed a pen or my phone to pour out some gut-wrenching poetry to express my feelings just so I could breathe. It works in those moments. Somehow, oxygen and words are related…