*This post talks about therapy. If you find that irritating/bothersome I’ll be doing more writey ones soon
All is quiet. Inside and out. I’m hoping this is a butterfly phase, even a turning into cabbage white would do. At least they fly.
Closest friends know I’ve been having some fairly intense therapy over the last few months. It’s positive, I’m mentally stronger, and undoubtedly this has been the right thing to do. For me as a writer though, I’ve relied on the extremes, the anguish, the fury as a way to propel my words…and now? Well, what? I have to look at all these things as an adult? Lose the childish pain that drove me? It’s a new way of being, and I’m not feeling safe. Which is daft, because I’m safer than I’ve ever been.
I feel a little at sea, and I suppose I’m writing this in the hope that I haven’t lost myself. Maybe it’s like losing loads of weight? Having to buy new clothes and being surprised every time you pass a shop window? Not feeling quite right with your new identity?
I am writing, despite having lost every shred of conviction that there is any value there. I’m also starting to realise that my best stuff isn’t the stuff about trees and the sea – although I like those. It’s the stuff that’s honest and that I feel awkward about. That’s what I read, and that’s what I write best. I just need to muster the guts to let it be read. And perhaps that’s what I’ll find the courage to do.