Why I Write
I was talking to a friend today, and he's been feeling awful, because he's had a lot of things happen this past week. I told him that the best thing he can do is to write it down, through the pain and the tears. No matter how much it hurts, write. Write until your fingers hurt. Write. Write until your tears are so hot in your eyes that you can't see what you're doing anymore. It hurts. It's painful. Write.
I've, unfortunately, learned how to turn tears off, to turn off the pain and to push down the suffering. I can tell you right now that it is not easy, good, or healthy. But I can't seem to stop myself from pushing it down, hiding it deep down where I hope it won't raise its ugly head into my life.
Even as creativity ebbs away I force myself to write; I may cry, but it has always helped me. It's helped me clear my thoughts, muddled as they may be, and to give me escape. Reminds me of all the reasons I have to stay around. To read the stories yet to be read, talk to the people I have yet to meet, try the food I’ve never tried. I’m sure anyone can think of more things than I can at the moment.
You have no idea how much writing can help, even when you think it can’t. “The power of the pen is mightier than the sword.” I’m sure we’ve all heard this, if anyone can remember who said it, please refresh my memory. Writing can help you to do anything. Writing can make you feel better, feel enlightened. It can make you feel like a warrior, make you feel accomplished. It can make you feel anything you want.
I write to get things off my chest because I feel my entire world on it. I feel that if something isn’t perfect, it’s not worth doing. I am hard on myself because that’s all I can do.
I’ll give you an example.
For longer than a year, I tried to be different from someone because someone told me I would be just like him. I was never home. I surrounded myself with friends and strangers alike. I ran myself into the ground trying to prove to a person whose face I couldn't even remember, let alone their name, that I was not him. I wasn’t even myself. I craved love that didn’t come from parents and I have been in a few relationships that I shouldn’t have been since then. I barely slept. Eventually I developed a stomach problem that has yet to be diagnosed; if I don’t get enough sleep, I throw up without the help of over the counter medication or tea to help settle the nausea. My heart problem raised its head, I went to the hospital once and went with the paramedics twice. I got sick and stayed that way, every time I felt better and went out I got sick again. I tried to be myself to an excess, to no avail.
I feel myself slipping back into that lifestyle in a worse way. With association I can’t seem to get away from because they don’t leave me alone and I risk ruining a good friendship with multiple people by blocking all forms of communication with them. And that keeps me running. Always running.
Running from everyone and everything. Sure, I stay living at home, but that doesn’t mean I stay there at all times. I’m on my horse, with my goats, with my friends, or something else that keeps me from everything that is supposed to feel like my security blanket but only brings stress. When I can stay somewhere else for a few days I feel free, more free than I feel 99.99% of the time.
Writing is my way of running when I have to stay home. And I guess that’s why I write here. To help others understand that people with depression have it for a reason, but they are still people. It helps to know the people behind the mask they wear at all times. And this is the hardest thing in the world, telling others who I am behind the mask, even if no one knows who I am.
I've, unfortunately, learned how to turn tears off, to turn off the pain and to push down the suffering. I can tell you right now that it is not easy, good, or healthy. But I can't seem to stop myself from pushing it down, hiding it deep down where I hope it won't raise its ugly head into my life.
Even as creativity ebbs away I force myself to write; I may cry, but it has always helped me. It's helped me clear my thoughts, muddled as they may be, and to give me escape. Reminds me of all the reasons I have to stay around. To read the stories yet to be read, talk to the people I have yet to meet, try the food I’ve never tried. I’m sure anyone can think of more things than I can at the moment.
You have no idea how much writing can help, even when you think it can’t. “The power of the pen is mightier than the sword.” I’m sure we’ve all heard this, if anyone can remember who said it, please refresh my memory. Writing can help you to do anything. Writing can make you feel better, feel enlightened. It can make you feel like a warrior, make you feel accomplished. It can make you feel anything you want.
I write to get things off my chest because I feel my entire world on it. I feel that if something isn’t perfect, it’s not worth doing. I am hard on myself because that’s all I can do.
I’ll give you an example.
For longer than a year, I tried to be different from someone because someone told me I would be just like him. I was never home. I surrounded myself with friends and strangers alike. I ran myself into the ground trying to prove to a person whose face I couldn't even remember, let alone their name, that I was not him. I wasn’t even myself. I craved love that didn’t come from parents and I have been in a few relationships that I shouldn’t have been since then. I barely slept. Eventually I developed a stomach problem that has yet to be diagnosed; if I don’t get enough sleep, I throw up without the help of over the counter medication or tea to help settle the nausea. My heart problem raised its head, I went to the hospital once and went with the paramedics twice. I got sick and stayed that way, every time I felt better and went out I got sick again. I tried to be myself to an excess, to no avail.
I feel myself slipping back into that lifestyle in a worse way. With association I can’t seem to get away from because they don’t leave me alone and I risk ruining a good friendship with multiple people by blocking all forms of communication with them. And that keeps me running. Always running.
Running from everyone and everything. Sure, I stay living at home, but that doesn’t mean I stay there at all times. I’m on my horse, with my goats, with my friends, or something else that keeps me from everything that is supposed to feel like my security blanket but only brings stress. When I can stay somewhere else for a few days I feel free, more free than I feel 99.99% of the time.
Writing is my way of running when I have to stay home. And I guess that’s why I write here. To help others understand that people with depression have it for a reason, but they are still people. It helps to know the people behind the mask they wear at all times. And this is the hardest thing in the world, telling others who I am behind the mask, even if no one knows who I am.
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