This should be a shot in the arm for the readers of my “Write Yourself into Being”, an encouraging page for journalings.
Did I write that?
Writing is terrifying. When I tip-toed into blogging just over a year ago I hadn’t found my voice yet. Words came out like rush hour into an emotional traffic jam. Being introverted doesn’t help. I’m terrible at giving myself permission to be a real person who occasionally sucks at everything but writing seems to help which is why I keep doing it. If I were writing about gardening or what I had for lunch every day maybe it would be easier but instead I felt compelled to write about life, trauma, recovery and every awful memory from my childhood. What the hell was I thinking? Do you ever feel like that? Have you ever looked at what you’ve put out there and thought, gross. Why? Noooooooo! It’s a feeling like cutting your bangs too short on picture day in middle school. Dear younger me: die…
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