Why I Write

My therapist tells me all the time that my mind is so full of stories and thoughts that it can be overwhelming for those around me. If you know me in real life, you know I can talk. The inside of my crowded brain can look a lot like Shea Stadium when the Beatles played. It’s cramped and girls are screaming and I think George is fighting with Ringo (name that quote). One story connects to another story which connects to something I remember from college and something else someone told me once when I was 12, and before I know it I’m tangled up in a dozen subjects at once. I don’t mean to do this sort of tangential thinking. It’s just the way my mind has worked up until now. I didn’t know other ways to think existed.

Therapy: life doesn’t have to feel like Beatlemania. I’m the one climbing that gate, to get away from myself.

Writing has been part of my world since I started my first journal at age 7. Sometimes I wrote more or wrote less in different phases of life, but it was always something I did in some way. Whether they were sad, angry, thrilled, or mundane, words have always been there for me. They sort through the mess in my head and help me to keep what I want and put what’s left to rest. Words help me move forward. They also make me laugh and remind me about all the fun parts of life.

Writing (and therapy) in the last two years has slowed my mind down in a good way. Don’t get me wrong, I still ramble. I love to talk, and there’s nothing better than a long conversation with a friend. But I can focus more clearly on what I’m saying and where I’m going with it.

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