We talked today, my coworkers and I, about what we would do if fear was not an option. Fear is a big thing in my life, so I would probably do a lot more. But this conversation got me thinking about writing and all it is for me. See, I started this blog on a whim, but it quickly became something else. My mind is a tricky thing, and I can’t afford therapy, nor do I want a therapist. So writing became a form of therapy for me, a place where I could say whatever I wanted so that I wouldn’t have to talk about it. A place where people could relate, but it wouldn’t feel confrontational. If someone had advice, I wouldn’t have to get worked up or anxious or feel attacked, and it wouldn’t matter if I ignored them or not. Sadly, I have lost all of that.
I’ve dealt with a lot of anxiety lately, but I can’t actually write about it, because so many people will try to talk to me about it. Once it’s written about, it’s dealt with in my mind, and if it isn’t, that doesn’t matter. It is so hard for me now that I feel like I have no place to go in order to vent. If I’m ever not okay it seems like people freak out if they know about it. It’s like everyone has lost all trust in me and my actions and would feel safer if I spent my bad days in the looney bin. But I don’t need that. It’s okay to have bad days to feel down. It’s normal.
I’ve noticed lately that when I talk, what I say probably doesn’t matter. I don’t think anyone actually cares if I have anything to say and they probably wish I would stop talking all together. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to is an old tradition, but maybe it’s time to go back to those days.