"She knew she was really sad,
when she stopped loving the things she loved."
atticus
When I read this last night, it was after the lights had been turned off and the city was asleep.
And I almost started to cry.
I've been a writer my whole life.
Whether I've admitted to it or not, that's what I am. I write to express, to feel, to be relatable, to be recordable. To go back into my mind and pull things out, to ponder, to feel my sadness and let it go.
I've been writing for as long as I can remember. Young author's fair, childhood stories about princesses, Xanga, then Vox, then and now Blogger.
Then something happened. She came into my life and because I could no longer be anonymous with my feelings, because I no longer wanted to process through the pain, because it hurt too badly to express myself and because no one could understand what I was going through... I stopped.
Four years now since I've written like I used to. Four years since connecting with myself and others on a platform that really worked for me.
I don't think anyone understands what I went through. I express my feelings and they hear family feud, but it was so much more deep than that. It was psychological. It was enough to change me.
My coworkers bought me Lara Casey's Powersheets. I haven't looked through the booklet yet, but maybe one of my goals can be to write more. Or to write anything at all.
