i write, because 'it is there'. ( mallory)
or maybe because it "is in here" pointing to my heart.
All of the therapy I have experienced has done wonders for me.
No doubt I am better because of good, caring therapists. I am also a beneficiary of a large caring family that listens, loans wisdom, and gives generously when times are tough. I thank God for all of them. I rejoice now as much as ever, that my love of writing has turned into a love for my own life as I write down the parts, the episodes, the wonderful memory strewn path that winds from that place so long ago into the present where I live now. I am sometiomes troubled bythe person I seemed to be when under great stress. ( i could be angry, hostile punative, though not usually outward) At times I was so sad that i thought of what it would be like to take my own life, these thoughts being brief and easily quashed by thoughts of my children.
Some days I NEEDED to write. Others I could not, but now it is as if I can not avoid writing. if i do not put this down here or on a yellow pad, I will put these words into the time between sleep and wake, in between the cutting of trim and the nailing of same. I squeeze these sorts of thoughts in between brush strokes.
White primer, layers of memories, then the brush adds a layer of blue. Sealed, set in the texture of my day.
I have now lived many places, and i do not like to move. I have taken on many roles, and I do not like to act.
I have become many things to many people, but always trying to find out who I was in Christ, my Lord, the savior of my soul.