As an extrovert, I process both the chaos within me and the world around me externally. I have to talk about my thoughts to know what I’m thinking. Only when it’s outside can I see what’s been inside. When my words leave the confines of my mind they become solidified, tangible. They become something I can navigate, something I can push, prod, inflate and deflate, something I can throw and see if they stick. Cooped up for too long, they begin to buzz. If I don’t heed their call, they’ll rattle the cage. It blinds me, I panic. There is no up nor down, simply chaos. I spiral. The further I get from center, the harder it is to reign in. As if in a tornado filled with debris, I lose sight of the ground. Inhale. Exhale.
I know if I could just speak my mind, I could sort the storm. So I do. I throw my words at the page. They stick. Open the flood gates. I pour them out, drenching my journal in my endless quest to tie down the loose ends of my frayed mind. The good, the bad, the ‘what if’s, the ‘Lord please’s, the dreams and the unsettled fears… It all finds its way to the paper. It always will. Pen and paper. Muscle memory. As my pen weaves pigment the blindness is lifted, the panic is eased. Therapy. The words find order at the very moment the ink pulls them into existence. All they’ve been buzzing for is validation. I hear you. Inhale. Exhale.
My pen, a needle; the ink, a thread. Together, they stitch up the wounds that pour out with each pulse. Crisis averted. Storm settled. Inhale. Exhale.
Some days, my need to write matches the need for a medic in a war zone, other days it’s the simple comfort of a nurse with an unnecessary Band-Aid. Whatever the pain. Whenever the injury. The words, they heal. They medicate. The pages hold the weight of my burdens and the scars of my past. The writing brings sense to the senseless. It brings optimism as I know my pen will faithfully find that paper each night. Inhale. Exhale.
My heart of hearts beats in those pages allowing my soul to live free. Allowing me to love like I’ve never hurt, to play with fire like I’ve never been burned, to dance in the sun like the world never stole my innocence. Inhale. Exhale.
I write because it sets me free, because I can be authentically me. I write because the world comes into order when I accept the rampant disorder. I validate the thoughts. I accept the storm. In ink, it never seems as scary. I hear you. Inhale. Exhale. Release. Peace. All is well. Restoration. Recalibration. Bemused by the deluge I return to my written refuge.
Inhale.
