I want....

to be able to write. But I can't. I'm feeling particularly vulnerable right now.

I want to write. I want to write because writing seems to help calm the whirlwind that goes on in my brain.  I want to write because it seems to be somewhat theraputic, in a non-judgemental way.  I want to write but am feeling very vulnerable and end up worrying.  Which in turn has me edit, delete, re-wright, edit, delete....rinse and repeat a hundred times over.  I'm finding myself more and more stressed as I think about writing. I want to be honest.  Yet, being honest in my writing means I need to be honest with myself.  Being honest w/myself is scary.  Writing in pure honesty leads me open to the flood gates of hell come crashing down.  Way down. 

I want to write for me. Not for you. As far as I know there is no you.  There is a ton of you that I could share this with.  But then, I'm opening myself up.  The facade (sp) that I so often put on in my every day life. Gone. down the drain. unsafe. no trust.  I want to write about that. I want to be honest with myself.  Being honest w/myself is scary. As I've said over.and.over.and.over!  I worry about my own vulnerbility (sp).  I've wrote before.  About the deep down and pure honesty stuff that haunts me at night.  That triggers me at work.  That sends me into that tailspin and person I don't recognize.  I want to write about that.  I've wrote about it before.  And the person I shared it with pushed.  To hard.  To fast. And I wasn't safe. With her. With myself. With anyone.  I wanted to write then and I did and then.....all hell broke loose.  So I quit. 

I want to write. I want to stay positive. If I write about what is true, there will be nothing positive. Nothing.  I want to stay positive, but I don't feel positive.  I wanted this blog to provide myself with hope, not bring me down.  I've not been very positive.  There hasnt' been very much positive in the realm of my moods, suicidal ideations, anxiety, blah blah blah.  There are parts of me that worries if I write and am honest there will be someone reading that will know me.  Who will figure me out.  The annon. part of this blog will no longer be there.

I want to write.  I want to write about the deep dark secrets that plague my moods and feed into the darkness.  I want to write about those things that will help me understand myself better.  Yet, being vulnerable is an understatement.  If I don't write or say them outloud, maybe it didn't happen.

I want to write. I want to write in hopes that I can understand why this battle continues. I want to write in hopes that if I write it all out, put it on here or wherever, it will all go away.  Far far away.

I want to write. I want to write how much it pisses me off that I'm still in therapy.  I want to write about how upsetting that is to me.  Yet, as mentioned before on this blog, I continue to go.  I want to write about why I continue to go. I want to write about why I've not even come close to touching upon some of the deep darkness and trauma.  Yet, doing so leaves me vulnerable. I'm feeling vulnerable. I've been vulnerable.  I want to write about that and yet can't seem to find the words, with out feeling out of control.

I want to write. I want to write about my job. Write about how I love my job. I want to write about how much I hate my job. I want to write about how my job sends so many triggers it isn't even funny.  Yet, if I write about my job. I will open myself up and become vulnerable, more than I already am.

I want to write. I want to write about the good days.  I wish there were good days. They are so very few and far between right now.  There are snip-bits here and there.  Yet, I can't seem to find it.

I want to write. I want to write about, the many times I snap at my husband. During those snapping moments how there is a part of me that can see/sense/feel that it isn't me....the TRUE me.  The ME before.  And I want to write about the Before. I can't remember the Before, right now.  The only part of the Before, I can remember is the longing to be a mom.