I’ve been writing a lot with paper and pen. It’s been cathartic, really. I have arthritis (yes, at my age) in my right arm from my softball days so writing for more than the length of a note card often causes my hand to cramp and my wrist to ache. Is it weird to say that the physical pain is healing right now? Giving “voice” to the emotional turmoil inside?

I find it so hard to write in a paper journal. Not just physically, but mentally. It is hard to write for “just me.” As a teen, my Mom found one of my (umpteen) journals and used stuff that I had written against me. From that point on, I began censoring what I wrote in my journals. And what’s the point in that? If you can’t be honest in your most personal of spaces, what is the ultimate point? It won’t be a true reflection of what you felt or what you went through so why bother?

And for years, I didn’t bother.

I’ve been writing online for years and years. And years. And some more years. Once truly open with my words, I’ve been censoring more and more. In part because of the unethical actions of my agency, in part because I don’t want the world to see me struggle and in part out of respect for other parties. But censoring gets old. It’s hard to write, even in generalities, when you have to debate every other word, whether it will be used against you in a negative fashion or if you will hurt someone’s feelings. Quite honestly, not many people extend me the same sort of respect for my feelings and it feels cumbersome to always to the same for the world at large and just not those whom are important in my day-to-day life.

But writing in a paper journal again has been a challenge. My voice on the internet, though chronicling my/our journey/journeys, is an outward voice. I often talk to my readers. (HI READERS!) As I said, I do censor myself to some degree online, more and more these days. So when I opened that journal and stared at the blank page, I didn’t know what to write. How honest did I want to be? How deep into the details did I want to get? What if someone read it? Of course, the only persons with actual access to such a thing are my Husband who a) respects my privacy and b ) already knows everything I’ve written (thus far). I mean, my kids could find it but their reading comprehension at this point is rather low unless it’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Beyond that, depending on future contents, thus far I would have no problem sharing my struggles with my children. They need to learn what Mommy has been through in order to learn their own stories.

But it’s so hard to be raw sometimes. The words I use are words I don’t want to think about or admit to the general public. No, not foul words. Big words. Like depression. And anger. And hopelessness. Yeah, didn’t know that, now did you? I should be free to write since it’s just me, my own eyes, reading the pages. But what if I don’t want to know for certain how I feel? As long as it isn’t in black and white on a page, it isn’t real, right? As long as I can’t see the words, the problem doesn’t exist, right?

But it was cathartic all the same. I needed to get a lot of stuff out before my therapy appointment this afternoon or I wasn’t going to be able to say any of it out loud. In fact, I’m not quite sure I can say it all out loud even now and so the journal is taking a trip with me to the therapist’s office this afternoon. She can read it while I nurse the little one and gear up for her myriad of questions. So much has changed since my last appointment. My world is crumbling and I’m trying to claw my way out of the rubble.

I see some spots of light but just can’t reach…