One Writer's Truth

Yesterday's post caused me some uneasiness because it was so raw. It exposed some feelings I've had for a long time, and I think that for whatever reason, I just went on a rant. Later, I felt that the posting was self-indulgent and I considered deleting it, especially since it was so personal. Also because I figured that no one was reading anyway, so it wouldn't have much of an impact.

But I changed my mind and have decided to leave it alone, even if it doesn't get read until ten months from now (or even if my hub decides to read my blog one day and sees it). I recognize the danger of writing in that fashion, but it is a risk I am willing to take. If I say that I want to be a writer, then that means that I need to be willing to allow myself moments of raw emotion, moments when I get too personal, and just accept the consequences.

Writing is not always for a potential audience. Sometimes there is an audience of one. Writing is always first an internal conversation, and then a mode of expression to an outside audience. In many ways, this blog serves three distinct purposes: part online journal, part practice space for potential work, and part accessible writing sample. I am no different than many of the other bloggers out there. This is a forum for expression, and sometimes that expression is personal.

I have always tried to be a careful writer because I have suffered the unintended consequences of someone finding something that they weren't meant to see. Of course, those were adolescent ramblings of unrequited love, and yesterday's entry was not that at all. It might have been better to keep those feelings to myself, but in reality, I want people to know that I am human, I have good days and bad, and yesterday was a bad day for me.

I suffer from depression, which is a major admission for anyone to make. I don't think it is anything serious--I don't have violent mood swings and I don't need medication to function, but I have recognized for many years that I do have moods. I am quite certain that I have seasonal depression that gets worse during the winter because it tends to linger for days and weeks at a time. This particular year, it has been with me since right after my 31st birthday, which is earlier than usual (it usually arrives right after Christmas). And I think some aspects of my current situation have only intensified my moods.

I know that anyone who reads this would suggest that I get therapy. I am. Writing is my therapy. This doesn't mean that I would never seek professional help one day, but for now, this is what works for me. I know myself, and this too shall pass. In high school and in college, I wrote poetry. In law school, I came up with the idea for my novel (but silly me, I didn't write any of it down). When I returned to DC, I kept a journal and watched Oprah. Now, I use the blog. All of these platforms serve the same function--I write, I deal, and eventually, I move on.

At times, it won't be pleasant or comfortable. Yesterday was about frustration. Blogging is nothing like the secret diary because this is a public forum (hint, hint Jessica Cutler). Eventually, someone will see this. So, then well then, either they'll think I'm crazy, stupid, whiny, or just human.

Ciao.