This blog is delayed because I was reveling in my life this week, and last week. I hadn’t gotten home before 10pm any night because I was off about town. So, now I’m sitting here wrapped in a blanket on a Saturday morning.
My peers are marching for abortion legalisation in Ireland. I can’t face the crowds.
Sometimes I feel really self indulgent when I write. I feel like I have nothing to write about and that my words are simply symbols on a page, or a computer screen. I feel like no one, not even my closest friends, would read them. Let’s face it, I don’t write fiction. I don’t write philosophy. I write whatever thoughts come into my head and sometimes people relate to them and other times they don’t.
The fact is, I write because writing helps me to understand the feelings I have. I’m shite at articulating my emotions or my anxieties or my low moments but when I write, even if I publish the words on the internet, I find it less scary.
I hate talking to people about my PTSD or my depression. Sometimes I joke about my anxieties. The fact of the matter is that writing enables me to process these feelings and my thoughts in such a way as to live with them. I don’t like to say I suffer with anxiety, that I suffer from depression, that I was a victim and now suffer PTSD.
I live with these things. I live with my past experiences, I learn from them. I live with knowing that yes, I experienced sexual violence and I live with the psychological affects of that to this day. I live with anxiety, and knowing what circumstances leave me feeling overwhelmed. I live with depression, knowing that sometimes I will feel crap about myself.
The common trait here: I live.
I live with these things. They are a part of who I am, they are a part of how I am where I am today. They are a part of me, but they do not define me or encompass me. I live with these mental health issues knowing that they are not my fault. I did not wish to have PTSD. I did not wake up one morning and decide I was depressed. I did not purposely put myself in situations that left me feeling anxious.
I am in control of how I view these parts of me. I am in control of how I feel about them, what I do to overcome them, how I can eventually come off my medication. It has taken me years to understand my triggers and how I can cope with them. Sometimes, when people ask about what I’ve written on my blog, and I say ‘anxiety’ they reply, ‘but you’ve written about that before?’.
I have. I have written about my anxiety because it is a part of me, and writing about it, and whether I’ve had good or bad days helps me look back on what I’ve been through and where I’ve come. I write because I need to write, not to prove anything to anyone, just to myself. Sometimes I need to get out the things I feel. Sometimes I need to write down my experience of PTSD because I feel too vulnerable speaking about it.
It’s not easy to think about, talk about or write about. I don’t let it consume me, but sometimes it just pops into my head and I relive things. Maybe I should allow myself those memories, maybe I should allow myself to relive them, and realise ‘that happened to me, but look at me now!’.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.