I felt that sense of dread come over me tonight and didn’t know what to do about it. And a little voice in the back of my head whispered, You need to write. Why is it that I push writing away, pretend it doesn’t exist, pretend it doesn’t help, pretend it doesn’t release that feeling? Is it for the same reason that I often dreaded my weekly therapy appointments in college, not because I didn’t love my therapist, not because they didn’t help, not because I didn’t feel better after, but because the process of talking, of processing, of releasing, was emotional and draining? Is it for the same reason that during those same hard periods I avoided everything possible — my emotions, feelings, thoughts, instead of facing them?
It’s hard to be real with myself sometimes. No, not always. Actually, I’m more real with myself now than I’ve ever been. There are no huge issues that I ignore, no behaviors I try to hide, that’s not the 24-year-0ld me. That me was a hurting teenage girl and she has moved way past that. No, I’m talking just about emotions. A bad day, a bad mood, the feeling of dread I so often get, for no reason other than I’m a sensitive being and little feelings that others would feel, notice, and walk past, become crashing waves for me. And I know this about myself. It’s who I am, there aren’t many like me, and I know that and it’s okay.
Sometimes when the dread, or the gloom (of what, I will never know) comes over me, I want to ignore it. Watch tv, read, stuff it away somehow until it leaves. And sometimes that works. But other times I need to write. And I don’t want to. Because, what do I say? There’s no problem. There’s no issue. Nothing is wrong. So why should I write? What should I say? Why would anyone care or be interested?
