Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve found that writing down things that troubled me, helped. Something about the process of putting my worries, fears and thoughts to paper gave me perspective. Like opening a box whose contents you fear, once you actually lift the lid and see what’s there, it’s not so scary anymore.
Sometimes my life is very calm and smooth and that’s my preference – I’ve never liked conflict. I find it unsettling and disruptive. I like to be creative and enjoy life, especially the ordinary things that one would consider simple pleasures – the smell of blooming roses, the warmth of the sun on my arms, the sound of little children giggling, puppy dogs, kittens, a great cup of coffee – you get the picture.
Other times, life is a dark storm hovering over the horizon, threatening and bruising the sky with doubts and fears. It gives me such aches and pains. That clutch in my guts, the dread of opening my eyes in the morning, the fear of sleeping at night because I know the next day will be worse than the one that has ended. Not a pretty thing. Horrible, in fact.
When it gets really bad and I can’t still the noise in my head, I write. Sometimes I write a lot. I write down all the tempetuous conversations that rattle inside my head. I write letters to people who I need closure with, that I can’t get otherwise. And sometimes it works. Sometimes just the act of putting it all down and then shoving it into a drawer makes it settle down. I don’t know if other people do this or if I’m just the oddest of ducks, but for me – it works.
Rarely (if ever) do I send these letters, because these letters are for me. They are for my perspective. For my edification. For my clarity. Little boxes to put my demons into I guess you’d say, and I find that once I have them there I don’t need to release them upon the world. And that’s a good thing.