What if we lived in a world where doors disappeared?
Seamlessly blended with walls as soon as they were closed.
You’d have to remember where you came from.
And how that helps you leave again.
Would you remember the doors?
Or stay in the room, defeated?
Sometimes I sit in front of my computer, hands on the keyboard, thoughts racing through my mind.
I have to write.
A pressure builds in my chest, feeling like something is going to burst from deep within me, ripping apart the very essence of myself if I don’t get it out onto the screen.
But no words come. I sit and I think and I try to sort through the racing carousel of fleeting thoughts, hoping to grasp onto one long enough to eke out a satisfying thought, but it slips through my fingers like sand.
Pressure builds and I know I must write or spend the night distracted and unable to sleep. It’s been so long. I’ve been scared to open up.
You see, writing is how I process the shit. It’s how I take a step back and think about what is causing me to cry at the most random of times. The thoughts that propel the carousel to spin faster and faster so that I am no longer able to properly function. Writing slows it down, if just for a moment.
So why have I been so hesitant to write?
I think I’m afraid of what I will find when the carousel slows. So I just keep going. Faster and faster. Adding more and more insecurities and fears and “wow I should talk to a therapist about that someday.”
So instead of writing something substantial, I choose to write about writing. It’s been so long that I guess I need a crash course. An ice breaker. Maybe if I write about writing this time, I’ll be able to write about healing the next time.
Until then, I’ll be riding this carousel.
When I’m overwhelmed, overstimulated, and over it, I write. Not necessarily anything of substance, not necessarily anything that will ever be posted. But I write. Sometimes it’s as simple as the Greek alphabet (so I don’t forget that always useful lifeskill), sometimes it’s a random French phrase that finds its home in my head and randomly comes up for air.
I’m not often surprised by what I write. After all, this is my brain it’s coming out of. But sometimes, I notice the words that are traced in half-assed cursive. Sometimes, I notice certain trends that to a third grade literary critic would raise some red flags. Phrases like “j’ai terminé” and “je veux mourir” sometimes spill out. I didn’t intend it. I don’t seek to scare anyone that dares to read my scribbles over my shoulder. I tell myself it’s because they’re easy to write in cursive and I love the way that the J goes so beautifully into the AI to form “j’ai” in what could, with the biggest imagination, be considered calligraphy. Sometimes I tell myself it’s because they’re some of the few French phrases that I still remember. But the patterns are undeniable and the words tattoo themselves onto my forearms and forehead and foresight because I know what’s coming.
So I silently close the notebook, resume my regularly scheduled procrastination, and shove the phrases right back into their home in my head.