I’ve always found writing a cathartic exercise. An exercise I don’t practise enough really. I remember being a young child hiding under my cabin bed and writing nonsensical stories for hours, letting the writing come to life in my imagination and dance behind my closed eyelids. They may not have made much grammatical sense back then but it was a past time, one I loved, one I hold fondly.
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I’ve always loved stories. Stories grip, tangle and weave beautiful images in our minds. They touch us, teach us and express some of the deepest corners of our minds, not only to ourselves but others too. The main reason I love stories because of the awesome power they have to relate. My one trait I favour as a human is an uncanny ability to tell a story. I often use this trait in social situations as an attempt to bond with people. I love setting the scene and putting people in my eyes, I love to see the reactions on people’s faces when I tell them of one of my escapades. What I love more though, is when someone tells me one back. That’s when bonds form, bonds form and connect us, they let us know that we are not alone.
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This blog has been littered with posts about my life, some things of a more spiritual nature, some randomness, the odd story here or there. I use this space as a platform for ventilation. Despite being able to tell a story one thing I’m not is a very good communicator of feelings. I’ve never been able to quite personify my feeling verbally. Maybe it’s an underdeveloped personality trait, maybe it’s the fear of not getting the reactions I want, maybe it’s down to some form of childhood trauma. It could be all of the above but for when I write I begin to see things more clearly, I can be honest with myself and most importantly I can get those feelings out.
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I’ve come to learn that suppressing yourself is not a good thing. Go figure? It’s obvious that it’s never a good thing but I’m sure I and many others do it because of an innate fear. A fear of being rejected, not accepted, embarrassed… ashamed of who you are. I often hide my more sensitive side these days because I can’t bear the thought of being ridiculed for feeling. What an alien thought… Being so suppressed that you won’t allow yourself to feel. You’re denying yourself a human right on that path. When you go down that path another darker, abstract path appears. You depersonalize.
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The feelings that made you YOU start to disappear and hide behind closed doors in your mind. You know they are there, clutching at door handles, scratching their bludgeoned fingertips at the door, but you keep them locked in because it’s easy that way. It’s easy not to face them. Your outside world becomes darker and grey when you turn off. You’re just a shell of a person going through the motions, trying not to have the mask you’ve made ripped off. Taking away the mask would reveal the person you’ve come to despise.
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There’s a reason this happened though, there’s always a reason. Nothing in life happens due to mere chance. You didn’t just one day find yourself on the dark path, you made a choice, you chose the dark path. My belief is that if you relate to what I’m saying maybe you’re treading the slow footsteps or you’re un an unfamiliar wilderness. The sky is black, the trees are eerie, the wolves are howling. The reason I believe is in your story.
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This isn’t about reliving the past. To an extent, it’s not. It’s about telling your story, revisiting those feelings and unlocking the doors in your mind. Part of the reason you suffer is that you haven’t let go. Occasionally you open the door to those feelings and you sucker punch them right in the gut, kick them back in their place and only feed them on the scraps of negativity. You haven’t let go of the past.
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I’ve found that the main catharsis comes when it’s written out in front of you. The thoughts that linger in your mind are spelt out on paper and you can see them for what they really are. Memories that don’t exist in reality, just in your mind. They are gone, over, they can’t hurt you anymore. Writing them down is the way to let it go. Accepting what you see as nothing more than a time that doesn’t exist anymore. There just old stories.
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I’d like to tell my story now, I’d like to let go.
