Writing is a very personal thing for me. It’s raw, and real. It’s flawed, and shows that as a human being, I am too.
As I write this, I’m crying. I could go into specific details as to why, but I’m not going to. Just know, somebody read some of my personal writing, and were surprised. I’d always smiled and seemed so happy…positive even. But my writing didn’t reflect that, and for some unknown reason, they didn’t understand.
I started writing because of a bereavement, and since then, loss has remained a constant within my writing life. That doesn’t mean that I don’t try to share my humorous side, I do. But writing isn’t just a hobby, or a project for me. It’s a significant part of my life, whether I choose to share it with others or not.
I have anxiety. I’m a perfectionist, an over-thinker, and my own worst critic. I set myself un-achievable goals and dismiss the smaller ones. I live my life on the basis of “What could I be doing better?”, instead of “you’re doing just fine”. It’s a cycle that never ends and it’s draining.
Recently, I’ve been feeling so content, and I know that when the sun rises, I will feel like that once more. However, I will also feel different. I will wake up ready to write, and I will go to sleep happy with whatever words made it onto the page. Not everyone will understand how you write, or why you do. So, to the person who didn’t understand, I’m sorry that I don’t make sense, and that my writing didn’t make you laugh. I am who I am, and I write the way I write.
Until next time keep dreaming x