I like to write out my thoughts and concerns and use my writing as a process for my own healing. By the end of an emotional writing session I’ve spilt tears and laughed and breathed; by the end of it, I’ve realised that I’m OK and that my problems have answers. I feel refreshed and I know that life will go on.
This is deeply private, deeply personal, and all written in a diary. When I was travelling I wrote every day. Sometimes I wrote about what I saw and little reflections, other times about things that worried me and things that gave me joy. I was calmer when I was travelling. I was relaxed, flexible, less of a control-freak. Travel has become important to me because I associate it with being the person I am (relaxed, joyful, creative) rather than what others perceive me to be (controlling, negative, lazy).
Since returning, I’ve barely written in my personal journal.
And I feel it. Unstable, frustrated, angry, constantly trying to exert control in an attempt to feel like things are OK when they are absolutely not … I notice the absence of my daily reflections and musings. And yes, I need to return to them, which I will do tonight before I go to sleep. Because in that writing I can find the person I am, rather than continue being this person I do not want to be.
This evening, full of anger and hurt and frustration and worry and all of those emotions that usually drive me to my diary, I’ve realised that at the core of it all is a deep unhappiness. Why have I come here instead of my pen and paper? Because I realise that my unhappiness is deeply rooted in my current state of being.
The last few weeks, I haven’t written at all. Aside from this blog, I’ve abandoned my writing. Instead, I’ve complained constantly about everything that gets in the way. My job. Distractions in the form of friends and family. My environment. My insufficient income. Last few weeks? OK, last few months. And when I hear myself, I hate myself. I hate that I torture people who love me by repeating the same issues in my ranting and raving. I hate that I talk about wanting to make changes but I keep giving “second chances” and never make the change.
And the thing is, it’s not even about making a change. It’s about making a choice. Yes, she who writes about choosing happiness hasn’t really made any choices at all.
I want to choose happiness. What is my happiness? Writing.
Yet in choosing writing over everything else, I need courage. And it is courage I lack.