I’ve always preferred pen to paper. The feeling of the pen in my hand, sliding over the page, slowing down my thoughts and allowing me to write them out letter by letter, has always been therapeutic for me. I’ve pictured my thoughts as swirls of chaos in floating around in my head and only until I take pen to paper, do they begin to slow down, form a single file line, from my head to my hand to the paper.
As I’ve gotten older, my thoughts no longer swirl manically like they did when I was younger. I clearly think them, but they have taken on a new, almost sinister form of chaos. Instead of a jumble mess of words I struggle to make sense of until I write them out, they now show up in imaginary scenarios and dialogue with random people. Scenarios that never happen and tend to be outlandish, unrealistic and ridiculous. The overwhelming theme of these pretend conversations is the destruction of my self-esteem and self-worth. I’m always the victim, the outcast, the idiot, the unwanted and the undesired.
After years of inconsistent journaling, I picked it up again, after my divorce. My intention was to document my journey of loneliness and hopefully find some understanding and healing within it. I’ve realized lately, that I have larger and more complex thoughts as a middle-aged woman than I did when I was journaling as a teenager, so my pen hand can’t keep up. I can’t write as fast as my thoughts are coming along. It makes me feel restless. Like I can’t fully get my thoughts processed and out because I can’t write fast enough.
So here I am. Typing. I never liked typing my journals. It felt impersonal and robotic. But right now, it is necessary. My typing fingers can get my thoughts and words out much faster than my pen-hand. So here I am. Typing.
I don’t have a plan of what I am going to write about, but I’m going to let the words flow and try not to judge them or myself.
- Alice B.
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