I’ve always been a writer. As a child, I remember scrawling poems about ice cream and bad days in my journals. In high school I fell in love with creative writing and a method called “madmen” which was introduced to me by my 7th grade English teacher. We would start each day with what she described as a “mental vomit” in which each student wrote for 5 minutes in a “stream of consciousness” fashion. So for five minutes we were to write anything and everything on our mind without any filter and without editing. I’d say this is the first time writing and journaling really spoke to me. I fell in love with this stream of consciousness style and used it daily, sometimes multiple times daily. I still have mostly all the journals; a giant crate, at least 10 or so. Pages upon pages of thoughts, blubs, poems and haikus. I was an insightful and inquisitive teenager coming to grips with who I was as a person and the writing really was like a compass that helped me cope with navigate those years. After graduating high school I went off to college and gradually my madmen mental vomits were replaced with textbooks, term papers and reading assignments. I faltered off of the personal journaling and eventually lost touch altogether with my writing. I am 30 years old now, done with school (for now at least) and now navigating wonderful working world of adulthood. I. Am. Miserable
I went to therapy for the first time ever last week. It’s been long time coming. I remember experiencing the tumultuous chapter of my life of becoming an angsty and emotional teen. I remember my peers’ parents forcing them into therapy, psychiatry and mood stabilizing drugs. I remember thinking, “wow I am thankful I have no mental issues or mental illness.” I have never lied to myself for so long in my life until I made the realization that I am riddled with trauma.
Now, as an adult…I am coming to the stifling and overwhelming realization that my life experiences have caused me trauma and in turn–horridly unhealthy thought patterns. I’m sure many can relate to this.
My therapist recommended I start a blog. For the past several years of my life I have been pining to write. Aching to express myself, to be completely candid and unfiltered with this depression and anxiety I suffer from. I do not know how to start (I suppose this post is a step in the right direction), I know nothing about blogs, and I have no idea where this blog will end up. I do know it is vital that I do this. I have what feels like little to no support. Loneliness is strange. You can have a whole village behind you and when you lay your head down at the end of the day it’s just you. You and only you. I’ve tried so hard to escape myself and now it is catching up with me. Wherever you go, there you are.
“Wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.” -Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
Loneliness can be and oxymoron. I crave a community, fellowship, support “the village,” friendship even. I. Feel. Completely. Alone.
Completely alone. That sounds like an oxymoron almost.