Cathartic Writing

Twirling, swirling, spiraling, floating … I feel like I’m doing all of these things, yet none of these truly capture my current state, as I feel like I am all over the place these days. It’s also been interesting writing again, journaling every morning, as I find the words are grateful to be expressed, and that they want space and freedom to breathe. I forgot how much writing is truly my outlet, my safe space, and who I really am. I am a writer, always have been. In my darkest moments, writing has been my therapy, my catharsis, and my healing.

 

Even as a kid, from an early age, I used writing as a way to escape, a way to release the trauma, often times expressing things at the time I wasn’t even ready to face or deal with. Then, years later, I would find that same piece of writing and it would be the exact thing I needed most to heal.

 

Those words would speak directly to my soul. Like they were waiting for me to be ready.

 

Cathartic writing. That’s what journaling has always been for me. And yet, I’ve avoided it for quite some time. It’s like I went totally radio silent on my best friend … on me. Journaling is a mirror for me, a place where I feel free to say it like it is, to just let it rip. And, I’ve missed this space. I don’t think I really knew how much until the words starting to pour again., I’ve been afraid to face her, that little girl who often times peers back at me in the mirror.

 

I’ve been afraid of her judgment, her criticism, and her disappointment. Perhaps, it’s not her opinion I really feared. For she is innocent, naíve, pure, and loves me no matter what. It’s the stuff that I have allowed to attach itself to her. It’s the conditioning, the programming, the stories, the fear. It’s other people’s opinions, abuse, rejections, and expectations that she has let penetrate her light and become a part of her that I’ve really been afraid of.

 

Because it means I have to own it, all of it, my role in it. Maybe it’s just that I’ve accepted it, received it, helps onto it. All that is mine as I took it in. All that is waiting for me in that mirror. So, here I am, reconnecting to my best friend, and looking at the little girl for the first time in a while. When I look at that little girl, really look at her, I see nothing but love hiding behind lots of layers of heavy, dense gunk. Her light has been dimmed often, and she carries many scars. Her instinct is to be wide open, to trust others, and to the see the good in all. But, life has tainted her, hardened her softness, and betrayed her trust.

 

Even so, she yearns to believe there is more. Even now.

 

She still hopes and allows herself to dream. It’s like looking through a broken prism of light — while the images may seem a bit distorted, the light remains pure. The broken fragments still create the most beautiful images. Sometimes the reflections are even more magnificent and exquisite when they come through the broken pieces versus how they appear from the whole. Because if you look closely, you will see that the pieces are not really broken. They are exactly as they are meant to be. The perfection is that they are not perfect … or at least what I have contrived perfect to be.

 

Perfect is knowing, seeing, feeling the divinity of the mess.

 

It is the realization that nothing ever can actually be broken. That the breaking apart is really the coming together. That the real treasure and gift must be released from its protective shell. That we must crack and break to allow the most radiant light to shine through.

 

Hmmmm, I feel something shifting … another cathartic moment, perhaps.

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