I have been fond of writing ever since I was a teenager. Before I had even known that there’s such a thing as a therapist (ironically, I’m one now), writing has always been my instrument to bring into awareness inner thoughts and emotions. It acts as a mirror, staring right back at me. As I write, the words that is on the screen is void of emotion and judgment. It’s matter-of-fact. If I can allow complete honesty with myself, I can see what I am really thinking and feeling. It can feel like I am ironing out the knotted mess that is my mind.
Aside from blogs that I used to have (and have now long forgotten, or have lost access to), I also used to have a notebook with me to pen my thoughts. In it contained entries as short as a few words, poems, grocery and to-do lists, random sketches of lines and circles, and whatever that could possibly be on my mind at the time of writing. That notebook became so emotionally significant to me, that the pages from the book was also cut out and used for love notes and letters that I would send to my girlfriend at the time.
I was the most creative, present, and emotionally aware during the period of time when I was consistent in writing and meditating.
Unfortunately, I no longer possess that notebook. I have since dropped the habit of regular meditation. Based on the duration between entries on this blog, I have also lost touch with writing. I am guilty of taking writing for granted. It seems to me that I only willingly approach it when I am in pain, and in need of cathartic self-awareness. Like a mistreated lover, I only showered it with attention when I needed something from it.
Why do I abandon writing in good times, when it was the one that had kept me there in the first place? I am a walking paradox. But so is going through the passage of life, which can be rather confusing and out-of-order; despite its sweetness if I’m ever so present to stop and notice. This further validates my point that I should be writing more consistently. I can benefit from taking notice.
To be really frank with myself, I haven’t been feeling my best lately. In the past couple of months or so, I’ve felt like I’ve disappointed myself in various aspects: relational, financial, physical, and emotional. The past 2-3 years have been rather draining, and it feels as if the platform that is supporting me slowly thinning down.
I haven’t been allowing these emotions to come into full awareness and to just let it breathe. Writing was one of the ways to catch these feelings, and so was meditation. I just went on with my days, denying these feelings its right to exist during times when it rightfully should. And so here I am, writing about it, staring into these words that I’ve just written. It’s like a mirror to how I look on the inside, and I can live it in its full flesh. I’m appreciating this, more so in the silence of the night.
Emotions can be rather tricky. Despite how disappointed or down I feel about myself, I know that when viewed rationally, I have accomplished a great deal of things throughout this year and have held myself together considerably well given the circumstances. But then again, these accomplishments has its time and place. And for this moment, I would like to instead allow what I’ve been denying to claim its own space.
There is a kind of relief and warmth that comes from being honest with myself. Being truthful almost feels like being naked (guess that’s why they call it the ‘naked truth’). To just feel my truth, despite the pain, is actually a rather pleasant experience. I’m glad I took the time to do this. This is the reason why I write.