But Why?

I have been journaling since the 4th grade. As a child I did it as a way to keep track of my days. To be there for myself, when nobody else was. I have always been one who feels allllll the feelings. Deeply. Intensely. But expressing them was not allowed or tolerated in our house. So along with my reading obsession it was a way for me to go inside myself where I could stay afloat. Keeping my eyes on the horizon, instead of being tossed around the ocean of chaos that was my childhood. As an adolescent I wrote to vent out all of my frustrations and anger and grief, alllllll the angst. So.much.angst. As an adult I have done it to fend off loneliness and anxiety, but the act of confronting all that loneliness and anxiety became daunting, so my writing became less of a daily habit, and more sporadic.

Recently, I’ve started daily journaling again when I realized that one of my greatest longings is to be understood. However, from doing a lot of inner work and therapy, I’m coming to the conclusion that being understood, the way I long to be, is not all that feasible. All of us humans are living our own subjective experiences, and no matter how much empathy we employ, it’s not possible to actually put ourselves in someone else’s shoes. So my new journaling practice revolves around digging deep to truly understand myself, because usually the things we want from other people, are things we actually need from ourselves. Love. Compassion. Acceptance. Understanding.

I’ve wanted to write a book for a long time. A memoir. The titles and exact subject matter, the outline, the chapters have all changed over the years. Never being able to pin down my exact idea has given me the excuse not to start. That, and the fear. Fear of breaking my parents’ hearts with my harsh honesty. Fear that it won’t be good. Won’t be interesting. That no one would read it. That maybe I’m just silly and self-indulgent. *Why* do I feel the need? I already do all of this writing through journaling, why do I need to write a book that, not only is unlikely to be published, but that I’m afraid to even have anyone read? Still the idea has nagged at me.

Until I had an epiphany a few months ago. The real why. Journaling is a great tool, it has served me well. But journaling is still internalization. It’s private. It keeps the story IN me, or at least nearby, never seen by or shared with anyone else. Writing something with the intention of putting it out into the world, in some fashion, is the TELLING of my story. By telling a story, you put it outside of yourself, where it can do less damage. So I’ve changed the lens. I started writing the book, without any thought of what might happen to it. Who might read it. What they might think. I’ve started writing my story simply to get it OUT of me, so I can stop carrying it around.

I’ve started blogging for the same reason. I have all these thoughts, feelings, fears, perceptions. All these little pieces from the Notes App on my phone, typed feverishly from the bathroom floor. Little victories, silver linings, endured heartaches, intrusive thoughts. My mind runs and runs and races with them. Maybe if I put them out there- alllll the way out there, not secreted away in a pretty flowered journal, not in a password protected computer file; maybe then I’ll feel less like I’m hiding in a glass box, with these words sucking up all the air.

So that’s why. I write to breathe. I write so that I don’t have to keep carrying my story, thoughts and feelings around like a cumbersome backpack. The more I write, the more little victories I find to replace the burdens of my past. As the weight of each burden is released, it becomes easier to climb out of the box. It was a terrible hiding spot anyways.