I yearn to write again, to have that outlet and that kind of release. Why do I keep talking myself out of it? Am I self sabotaging? Am I just afraid? I mean it’s not really that big a deal surely. What’s the worst thing that happens? I discover my words have all dried up that I climbed inside myself so deeply for so long that the real me has been buried alive, never to return…
It’s possible, I suppose. More likely I’ll start typing and the flow will begin, slowly gaining momentum until I’m writing so much that all I can think of whether in the bath, lying in bed, sitting on the loo or walking in the forest is what I need to write next.
I’ve been learning (obsessively of course) about my MBTI and I guess I’m finally, at almost 34 years old, beginning to understand my special brand of crazy.
I’ve spent so long feeling broken and not being quite sure the why or the how. In 2013 I did a few months of CBT on the NHS and really believed that uncovering the abuse I had suffered at both my parents hands as a child, teen and young adult was behind my ‘broken-ness’. When I neared the end of my alotted 25 sessions, I bowed out and stopped turning up. I felt like I was no closer to being ‘fixed’ than I had been at the beginning of therapy and didn’t see the point in ‘finishing up’.
I spent most of 2017 reading self help books trying to ‘get better’ and learn boundaries and the ability to form connections with other people.
Now I’m in a funk having read extensively but still feeling like a complete mess, a complete failure and like I’m failing myself and everyone around me in every way possible.
Learning that I’m an INFP sometimes helps and sometimes hurts (what an awful personality type to be born with, eek!).
So that was really not very coherent…but hey, I wrote a post…woohoo!