A Different Kind Of Therapy

When you are feeling emotion bubbling inside, there’s nowhere to hide from it. No way to ignore it. When there’s a ball in your chest so tight, that doesn’t allow you to breathe, that keeps you aware of the anxiety that is consuming you. When you hold back, tightly to the tears in your eyes. Frightened to let go, show weakness, allow them to see any chink in your armour because you know, if they do, they will attack, bring you down, as best they can. No let up, no reprieve, they want to see you on your knees.

At those times, you retreat, into your sanctuary, your personal space and allow those feelings to escape into words. Words that never seem quite enough to express those extremes, the highs, lows, the intensity of anger, despondency, futility, never ending, ongoing, unending, barrage of obstacles and setbacks.

So you write, let it all spill out, into sentences that flow, into paragraphs which make sense to you, in your head but to others would probably seem confusing, because… they do not know the story that brought you here. They do not know what season this is in your life, they just read of the deep, ferocious, all consuming chords you are striking with your text.

They feel your pain and many can relate to points in their life that left them wading through similar fears and torment. They don’t care what the circumstance, they still empathise with you, understand the emotion, whatever the cause.

You don’t write for them though. You write for yourself. To offload, in a safe space, without burdening, without oversharing to those close to you, without giving too much to them that shows how difficult these moments are. Without being too vulnerable, because that kind of softness and openness leaves room for more heartache and sorrow.

If there’s even a small crack in your outer defence, it will be taken advantage of. You have learnt, its not worth it. So you write, for strangers who do not know why you feel this pain, but they relate and you feel supported from afar without allowing anyone a chance to open your wound and expose it.

Keep writing, laying your feelings bare for people who don’t know. It isn’t an eloquent prose or a masterpiece of the written word, no. But that doesn’t matter, it just falls out in a dialogue to yourself, an acceptance of what is, a knowing “this too will pass” and an allowing of the process, the journey of allowing it to slowly dissolve into nothing as you bring it to life, in the form of words. The process of unburdening yourself and detoxing from the misery so you will once again regain your composure and go on another day as you have before.

No one will know, only the strangers who devoured those words, in your moment and secretly, quietly, cheered you on, both you and them knowing tomorrow you will feel different but for now you need to write, through the hurt.