I haven’t put pen to paper or tapped on a keyboard for Release in too long. Writing used to be my therapy, it used to be enough. Just seeing my words on a page helped me make sense of the quagmire that is the jumble of thoughts in my head. It was my Release.
It isn’t any more.
To be honest, it isn’t that I have no words to put out. I’m afraid to write. I’m afraid to see, in black and white Cambria font, the nightmare I am living in my head. As long as it stays is my head, formless, imaginary, I can choose to bury it. As soon as I put it into words, it becomes real, too real.
As soon as I say; I’ve lost my joie de vivre and I’m battling depression, the mask falls away and I’m vulnerable to your scrutiny, your questions, your judgement.
But now, I’m ready.