Too Close

Well, I’m journaling now.

About a month ago I started therapy. There’s a lot going on in my messed-up head, and I was finally convinced to go to therapy to get some help. And it’s been good. I don’t know that it’s directly helping yet—we’ve just gotten started after all—but I’m finding the time worth it as the therapist helps me work through my junk.

One of the things the therapist suggested is that I journal. Let out all the feelings. Just get them on the page.

And it’s kind of funny. I’m a writer, after all. I’m used to spilling terrible things in ink and letting the page soak up emotions too dark to be spoken out loud. This is part of what a writer does.

But as I write this journal (which shall not be shared!) I’m finding it… cold. Distant.

I’m afraid.

I can write about another person’s suffering. There’s enough separation between me and a character. Even though I can 100% identify because I have the same emotions, it’s safe to write what they’re experiencing. It’s not me experiencing it.

So right now it almost feels like I’m blogging about myself to myself. I’m reporting things that happen.

I suppose it’s a start. And I need to start somewhere. I do think this will help. It’ll be a healthy outlet.

But for the moment, yeah, it’s not the easiest thing for me to do!

Silly writer not being able to write about himself.