Writing was my therapy, always. When I couldn’t deal, I wrote. I wrote publicly, I wrote in my diary, I even wrote letters to people, if words couldn’t be said. My way of getting attention was typing. I didn’t want writing becoming my job, solely because it was so sacred to me.
Until one day, written pages weren’t enough for me anymore. I had to speak up. I had to start saying things out loud.
How sad I get sometimes, how anxiety is eating me from the inside because my rational outside self is not letting it out. How deep I feel every small change happening around me. I was afraid of opinions, of decisions, of standing up without objectives backing me up. Because guess what, life is not rational and I’m not on trial for feeling the world instead of thinking objectively about every damn step I take.
That madness almost buried me. And after this summer, I promised myself to let go. And I got help. Because it’s okay to ask for it. And It’s okay to say you’re not okay. I’m not okay.
Getting better doesn’t mean suppressing bad days and pretending to be better until you either forget or ultimately go crazy. It’s feeling them as strong as the good ones, with the confidence it will pass and teach you something. Because they always do both. And you can look back on them with a lump in your throat or with pride. I chose the latter.
There are days when there’s no one to talk to, and I still write. But the lump is slowly disappearing and writing somehow started to feel lighter. ♥