On the one night I didn’t want it to, and I mean REALLY didn’t want to, my bed smelt like my boy last night. And when my sister came in through the door…loud…at 4am I knew my day was off to a shitty start. Because once I was awake, I was awake and thinking. I felt too sick to sleep.
Writing can be avoidance. Maybe that’s what it always is, I don’t know. What I do know, is that when I feel stuff teetering around me, or even when it starts to bucket down, writing is what I do to escape. To vent. To sob, yell, or scream. I haven’t been writing as you all well know. I got caught up. And a realisation smacked me upside the head yesterday…that not writing has been to my detriment. The energy and cathartic nature of what writing does for me, I shifted onto other parts of my life. And I also placed enormous expectation on these other parts of my life to live up to the soothing every day stress-relief and often anti-depressive effects of what writing does for me.
That’s a whole big expectation. I have had no outlet, nowhere to wax lyrical or let the verbal diarrhea flow. Everything I think, thought, felt, imagined...everything that insanely angered me or even just remotely ticked me off…every tiny thing that I wanted to verbalise, I did. Because I am one who needs to talk. Needs to analyse. Needs to get all the shit out of my head so that is more space for the rest of the brilliance in there. (Yes, I jest.) So I’ve still been doing it, still been spewing forth about idiocies and problems and the little things that shit me in my day to day life, my work, my relationship.
But I’ve been doing it in the wrong forum. I’ve been using my partner as my outlet, which is fine for some things, but not for everything, every fucking day.
This post might not even make sense, but I gotta get it out there. I’m writing again. I not only need to, I want to.
I have to breathe again. We both need to breathe again. I’m only glad I’ve realised this before it was too late, so we can salvage each other as well as us.
