It has been a while, and my goodness, it sure has felt like a while.
I’ve recently lost my knack for writing, the thing I loved doing so much. Not only as an adult as I discovered it again this year, but as a teenager, as a young adult, it has always been my thing (without me even realising it most of the time). I didn’t realise that writing was my release…a place that I can be me and that people understand me.
For so much of my life, I have always felt like the odd one out. The kid was thought too much, the teenager who never got on the bandwagon of trends, the young adult who couldn’t keep her thoughts in a straight line. All of this time, I thought “Hey, I am just weird”…and little did I realise that most of my trailing thoughts, my deep moments thinking about the world crisis, weren’t because I was weird, but because I think differently to a lot of the people around me.
My psychologist calls it a Generalised Anxiety Disorder and Depression. I call it my bad ass brain.
For so many years, I have underappreciated my emotionally wired, different to contain, constantly thinking brain. I always thought something was wrong with me, that it had to be something to “be excused”, that I had to apologise for it. With a deep thinking and emotional brain comes short attention spans and lack of attention to detail. I only ever focused on the detriments, the downfalls, the problems that it caused me. And, much of the time, the reason it caused any of these at all was because I had no idea how on earth to use it.
It wasn’t until this year that I picked up a pen (or, more accurately, pulled out my laptop), and that I began to write. I wrote stories of my life. I wrote the feelings that I felt. I wrote the emotions swirling in my brain, trying desperately to get them out on paper. Little did I realise that my writing held emotion, and that people read my words and felt the emotion that I had so desperately poured out. What I began to realise was that my words on paper could mean something to someone else.
I started writing often, once a week, trying to hold onto that feeling it felt to be understood, to be connected with others, to finally find a way for my brain to fit in. But, things change, algorithms moved, people stopped reading, and I stopped writing.
So, I’ve decided to come back to my beloved @RecoverTogetherNow, to teach myself how to write again, without the fear or mind of who is going to read it.
Recover Together Now was my haven during the worst months of my mental illness. I told everything to it, and so if you’ll let me, I’ll begin to do it again.
Until next time,
Your fellow anxious comrade.