The Carousel

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.