Sometimes, I forget how good it is for me to write.
I stop journaling (check), I stop blogging (check, essentially), and all I write is papers for school. Not that writing papers for school is bad. It’s not. But recreational writing is even better.
But then, I get worked up over something trivial, and I’m sitting on the floor of my room feeling sorry for myself, and I grab my computer and crank out a full page in about five minutes flat, and through the process of writing that page, I figure out what I’m actually feeling upset about. The root of my feelings about this trivial matter. And once I feel like I’ve adequately let my feelings flow out my fingertips, I stop writing. I leave that document open, but behind other things. I read a bit. And then, with a realization and a rush of relief, I reply to a message and delete all the text of the page I’d just written. That was my moment of triumph — I decided to forgive the error that had caused me a bit of grief. And once I had done that, I had no need to look back on what was upsetting me. It was over. I was done with that and I erased it from my consciousness.
(That is a true story.)
What is it about writing that is so therapeutic?
I think it’s the formation of all the jumbled thoughts in your mind into phrases and sentences that could be said aloud. Except that no one has to hear them. What you write can be a piece of your own conscious mind, sorted and laid out such that now even you can understand it, but you’re still the only one that gets to do the understanding. It’s a map of your mind that you just made, when you didn’t have one before.
Maybe I’ll start writing more again.