Therapeutic Writing

I’m taking a time out from the kiddos to hide in my bedroom.

I was able to finish flashcard group 81-100 yesterday. I really had to make myself do it, but I’m glad I got it done. 220+ to go. I will probably get started on 101-120 later today.

After I got home yesterday, I was trying to figure out what it is that helps me relax. I pondered what I used to do, pre-kids, when I just wanted to tune out and just be. I realized that I spent a lot of time on social media, which honestly is not my cup of tea right now. I also took a lot of time to just lie on the bed, thinking. And I wrote. A lot.

When I was in junior high and high school, I spent a lot of time playing around with making websites and writing stories. Deadjournal, greatestjournal, My Dear Diary, and Xanga all became, at different times, a way to vent or talk about my life. While I had friends, I didn’t connect to them very closely. Writing was a haven. It helped me cope with depression.

Up until a few months before O was born, I wrote often. More creatively than nonfiction ramblings about life, but it was writing. I got ideas out of my head and down onto “paper”. I haven’t had that release in quite a long time, and I think it has contributed to my depression. I spend too much time in my head, unable to find release. Medication has helped, but it certainly isn’t therapeutic like writing is.

I suspect I’ll be posting here more often. Mostly as a way to unwind. I don’t really expect to gain a readership, I never have. Mostly I write for me, but having an audience is also something I require for some reason. I’ve always wanted to be internet famous, but I am not an interesting enough person to get any attention. Plus modern internet fame is different than what it used to be, I think. I really don’t know anymore. My definition of what “internet cool” means is antiquated.