I had a difficult day a few days ago.
I am a truly introspective person in every sense. Periodic isolation isn’t just a desire, it’s essential for my well-being and for me to grow.
I like to imagine my subconscious as a deep pool of water in a cave. Unsettling to some, but deeply comforting to others. It’s cool, and quiet, and peaceful. Nothing harms you there (this isn’t The Descent) and you can just think on things while you drift and listen to water drip off the stalactites.
Unfortunately, when you’re in your own head a lot, it can make it more upsetting when it turns on you. I do this a lot.
I have made incredible strides in healing, but there are still ghosts, and sometimes, they come tapping at the windows.
“You aren’t good enough.” They whisper, in their soft ghost voices.
“You don’t matter.”
“You haven’t accomplished anything important.”
Some days, I can easily brush them off and make them fade back into the corners. Some days, I can’t. That’s when I usually end up crying and feeling sorry for myself. That’s how it was a few days ago.
I drew the illustration at the top of this post. I liked how she turned out, but she was sad, and in her slumped shoulders and downcast face I saw a mirror. I didn’t feel better.
So I started to write. I was crying as I did; really ugly crying with snot and everything. I was going to get it out, because this is my site, damn it. I pay for it, and if I want to have a poor-me-woe-is-me fest, I will.
I was a few paragraphs in, when it happened.
I felt better. Just like that. I skimmed back over what I had written and cringed, because it was definitely whiny, but I had been able to write out my hurt and take back my power.
There may be days where writing doesn’t make the pain lessen. I hope that’s never the case. But I do know that when I was on my bed having a breakdown, I was able to, for a moment, exorcise the ghosts.
And every time I succeed in doing that, their hold on me weakens.