I wrote for myself, today. Finally. It’s bittersweet, however. It was out of frustration but it’s certainly a start. I started writing out of frustration so I suppose it makes sense to pick it up out of frustration.
I’m sure I’ve mentioned it somewhere on this blog already but most people don’t quite believe it when I say that I grew up very angry. I don’t blame them, of course. I’ve become docile to people I’ve met in my adulthood. Often, I actually forget. But I had significant anger issues, sometimes resulting in loud or violent outbursts. I never got into any fights or severely hurt anyone, though. But I was a small female child and my primary targets for these outbursts were male….so…you can see how that dynamic doesn’t really allow for a whole lot of push back.
Anyway, so other than the yelling, my other source of letting out my aggression was my writing. I’d like to think that it seriously helped me to keep myself in check, a little bit. I can’t even imagine how much worse I could have been if I never got journals for Christmas. And while it took me a long time to truly understand the flaw in my attitude toward others, it did help me to understand myself in ways that I don’t think I could have. I feel like me writing truly helped me to become as self-aware as I was and have become. Being able to write out everything I was feeling and coming back was my only way of understanding what and why I was feeling. I feel that it’s especially helpful as an adult that is…slightly more aware than a teenager.
So it’s progress. Feeling that natural urge to write even a little bit, for any reason at all, is a true testament to my progress in this experiment. We’re definitely getting somewhere.