Why I Write...

I'd forgotten why I write.

For more years that I care to count, I wrote in a journal. I've dozens and dozens of journals packed in boxes under my bed and in my closet. I'm not talking about the "Dear Diary" kind of journal; I'm talking about analyzing and questioning and theorizing about my life and all that it contained. I wrote when I was happy - not just, "Today is a great day; I'm happy." I wrote about what kind of happiness it was and all the events that made it happy. Sometimes I just woke up in a great mood and things just seemed to go my way. I could write five pages on the whats and hows and whys of my happiness.



When I was upset, that number easily increased to 25 pages. Yes, 25 pages. It is not a stretch. I would write and write and write and write until what ever it was that had to be worked out, was worked out. I'd write until I was done. Until all the worry or sadness or reason I had for a heavy heart was worked out and I felt lighter and freer.

There are only a hand-full of online friends that I've spoken to in person. And of those, an even smaller number have heard me talking when I really had something to say. On those occasions, I talk fast. I mean really fast! I'm animated and sometimes loud and I even trip over my words in my haste to get it all from my brain to the tip of my tongue. I write much the same way. Run on sentences and sentence fragments are littered throughout the pages. The words and the cadence mirror my thoughts. Sometimes disjointed, sometimes smooth and coherent.

The point is, I write because I need to; I'm not one for sharing my feelings or problems with anyone. I'm weird like that, I suppose. My journals keep all of my secrets and never think me strange or over the top or pathetic. Not that I think my family or best friends would think that, but I'm the type that keeps her own counsel. If I were a guy, I'd be the strong, silent type, I think. Not that I'm particularly strong, but silent, yes.

I haven't written in a journal in ten years. Why? I got pregnant, and suddenly, there was no more time! I was so preoccupied with the baby that all thoughts of myself went out the window. Over time, they forgot to come back.

For the past ten years, I'd no thoughts of myself, of stopping and writing and working out in my journals the ups and downs that were going on in my life. Going back to school, taking a job with a long commute. My feelings of inadequacy and failure at not being able to work closer to home or spend more time with my son. Nothing I did was good enough in my own mind, and because I wasn't expressing myself in my journals, I began to believe that those feelings were justified and not temporary.

The results of ignoring my thoughts and feelings, of not expressing them on paper was a deterioration of my self worth and self esteem. I could list for you my accomplishments, but they couldn't compare to my list of failings. I'd forgotten who I was and why I was of value and all those things that made me me.

I'd often been told I wasn't Daria any longer, but Mommy. I wasn't to have an identity outside of my son. And stupid me, by ignoring my thoughts and need to work out these issues via my journal, I began to believe these foolish ideas. I began trusting myself less and other people more.

But I'm writing again. It's slow; I'm a bit rusty. But I'm getting there. Writing was always my coping mechanism; nothing could happen or not happen that I didn't write about. I wrote until I felt better. Those days are coming back.

For now, I'm identifying problems and working on solutions. I'm once more recognizing my feelings towards people and situations. It once came naturally to me; I don't think it will be hard to get back into the swing of things.

I write because I need to; it is an integral part of what makes me, me. I write because I don't function properly otherwise. I write to become a better person, a more complete person. I write for me, about me, and to me.

I write until I am finished.

I'm finished.