Mental Nothingness

 The most worn out metaphor I can think of is waves. 

And yet my best metaphor to describe my ever changing feelings is; waves.

Sometimes they're drowning me, sometimes they're taking me for a hell of a ride.

Either way there's exhaustion of some sort, a wariness waiting for me on the other side.

My fingers have gone so long without typing now that it feels truly awkward.

Which is sad because writing used to be such an important piece of my identity.

Now it feels like something I used to do.

And it is. Writing used to come to me like a flood of words dying to escape my head.

Then I began to fill my mind with facts and concerns, with heavy memories and trauma, with stress, anxiety and shit I can't control.

What begged to escape me then, was curse words and anger, hatred and blame.

Writing was no longer an outlet but just more work. It became work to express my emotions, my ever so complicated, self inflicted misery. 

I made myself start a journal.

I've always struggled with the idea of a journal.

I'm a planner by nature so once I've spent my entire day figuring on how I'm going to do things it seems pointless to list it all out.

I realized I had so confined the idea of a so I decided that I would just write.

At first I had nothing to say so I just wrote what I did that day.

And then I start to spill over the top and the words were coming back to me.

A couple times I even escaped back into the place of mental nothingness where I used to write from so much.

Just an honest and peaceful, clean slate in my mind where I just allowed the words to leave me without effort.

It gave me a little bit of faith again, that maybe I still have that shard of myself inside dying to be unpeeled.

Xoxo, Gussie