Untitled

Whenever I am happy, I don't get that desperate urge to write. It's not that I don't enjoy writing when everything in my life is going smoothly, but more that I find myself savouring the moment rather than needed to expell my feelings. When I read back through everything I have written over the years, the periods of happiness have tended to result in pages upon pages of trivialities and pointless observations. And part of me likes these entries just as much.

Even as I write this now, I don't have any particular purpose or aim. I'm not really trying to make any point or comment on anything particularly profound - I am just writing because I enjoy the process. My writing is the 'stream of consciousness' novel of my life; a completely purposeless insight into my mind.

But at the same time I do need to write when I am content; I need to record the moment and remind myself that sometimes life really is good. It's very easy to allow the negative thoughts to dominate and to write when things are hard to bear, but ultimately it's just as important to look back and see the good in life. When I do look back at all the things I have written, it is the silly little pointless peices that make me smile and have taught me the most about myself.

I don't think writing needs a purpose. I don't even think writing needs to make sense. For me, writing is not about entertaining or teaching or analysing but about learning and knowing more about oneself. Writing and reading are both the same; they are both about finding your own meaning.

Fighting back

Sometimes I get this feeling like everything is ending around me. The air somehow seems heavier and I find myself fighting to breathe. And the faster I breathe to try and stop the fear, the more I find myself losing control.

Sometimes I find myself scratching. Sometimes I do it deliberately because I need something to slow myself down; because the pain brings me back to reality. Sometimes I do it because I convince myself that I deserve the pain. I don't like doing it and yet it's like a cure, and I know that in allowing myself to inflict this pain I will find a release from the moment. Everytime I begin to panic I find myself looking at the scars and once again my mind fights with itself.

I don't know what brings me to do it but I know I should stop. And while I still get that urge to do it, I am fighting it. I am keeping my hands occupied. Making things, scribbling, baking, anything. Just holding a pen can sometimes be enough. I am fighting against the urge because I want to be me again.

And I am beginning to get better.

Note to Self

I've checked my emails at least ten times in two hours.

Perhaps I'm getting a little obsessive-compulsive.

Mortality

I spend a lot of time worrying about my health. I'm not entirely sure when I first became aware of my own mortality, but suffice to say I've been gripped with paranoia about disease and illness ever since.

What is interesting is that I am not particularly scared of pain. I don't spend hours awake at night worrying about the symptoms and effects of any particular illness, nor do I fear permanent disability. As much as I hate to admit it, it is the fear of death that consumes me.

Writing

My diary used to live safely under my bed. In my naivety I feared that someone might seek to read my thoughts and that somehow this dark place might keep my feelings secret. I flattered myself with the notion that my words might be of interest to someone else and at that same time feared that somehow this could be used against me. Writing was the cure to my constant state of worry and yet at the same time it fuelled it, leaving me paranoid that my private thoughts might be abused.

I have always had difficulty writing in front of people and even now, my diary remains completely private; my written mind and the rawness of those words are for me and me alone. Only two people have ever known any of the thoughts that it contains, and only one has ever been trusted to hold my words in their hands.

And yet I find myself writing here. Having spent so long hiding my thoughts away from the world, I have reached a point where my need to write surpasses my need for privacy. Some thoughts remain my own and demand the secrecy of my diary and yet some find themselves spilling out during the day. These words I am happy to share.

Words

Whenever I feel lost, I find myself again through words. I feel so much more alive when the words are flowing from my heart and my mind and I can think of nothing but the words themselves. I don't write with any purpose other than to release my emotion; the words don't need to make sense or have any particular meaning. That is the true beauty of writing - sometimes the very act itself is as significant as what is said.

I write because my mind is telling me to do so.

I write because I need release.