Therapy?

I’ve heard numerous times of the benefits of writing being highlighted as one of the quintessential forms of self-help therapy available to every literate individual of this day and age. I’ve even touted said benefits to friends and family members who are going through difficult times, saying such things as, “why don’t you write about it? It might make you feel better to put it all down on paper.” I’ve been reflecting on this method of handling stress and wondering if it’s actually something that I have incorporated into my own life… You see, I’ve had a sneaking suspicion for a while now that I may not be practicing as I’m preaching..

I’ve come to realize that I tend to internalize, i.e. agonize over things for an extended amount of time, applying all of my coping methods and problem solving skills to a problem that I absolutely refuse to write down—when finally I’ll reach some sort of peace somewhere way down the road, and then, only then will I write about it. I mean, it took me two years to even write about my ex husband murdering my dog, talk about a delayed reaction. I suppose that I use this writing down of events as a sort of closure, or memorializing technique… I guess that I figure once they’re out on paper, then they are really there, and permanent, with all events, actions and feelings recorded.

So, with all this in mind, I have decided that I am a hypocrite. I give advice and believe that it’s good, “oh yeah, write about it it’ll make you feel better,” then, refuse to follow my own advice. I believe Alice in Wonderland realized the same thing part way through Lewis Carroll’s drug induced childhood fairy tale…

I give myself very good advice
But I very seldom follow it
Will I ever learn to do the things I should?

I found myself pondering this very situation on April 8th. John had bought me a Great Dane puppy as our anniversary present. We took the pup in to have his ears cropped and on this horrible day, the vet called us back and informed us that the puppy had died coming out of anesthesia. John and I were beside ourselves. I took Wednesday off from school, and we spent the day trying to deal with the range of emotions that comes from losing a family member.

I vowed to myself that I would blog about it, for I was having tremendous difficulty sorting out my emotions. They were running rampant; from extreme sadness, to anger, to disbelief, and back again in no particular order, and I told myself that writing about it might actually help me to deal with, or at least nail down one particular thing to feel at a time. Well, I stalled. I played my hypocritical card, and told myself that this was not worthy blog material, for I should be writing about one coherent idea, which is a load of rubbish—as I’m sure you can discern if you’ve read any of my past entries.

So I’m writing about it now… Actually, I guess that I’m writing about my lack of writing about it, maybe my advice isn’t so grand after all. Maybe I’m too vain to write about problems that I’m having in the here and now, because every time I try, I feel like they need to be polished out a little more, have their rough edges smoothed so they can fit into a neat little package. I’ve determined that I am not a raw material writer; I have to spend a good deal of time thinking about what I’m going to say before I actually say it.

John says that I’m introverted, and that I don’t talk much. He says that I manage to communicate how I’m feeling and what needs to be said with surprisingly few spoken words, so maybe that’s why I take so long to build my pearl around whatever grain of sand has gotten under my skin. Not that I’m a woman of few written words, I mean, obviously I tend to ramble on about various subjects when I’m writing—more so, maybe I’m a woman of tremendous effort to make my brain slow down for a moment so it’s not as chaotic as it normally is, and I can figure out exactly what it is I intend to write about. I find it kind of disheartening that it takes me anywhere between two weeks and two years to actually organize my thoughts enough to write about them, but I guess that I’m going to have to settle for being a retrospective writer.

With that said, I’m off to ponder my current situation, which I’m sure you will hear about sometime in the future (give me a month or so). I have no doubt that I can polish this pearl up and make it infinitely more palatable if I continue to not follow mine and countless therapists advice to write about it in the here and now… Festering is the word that comes to mind… I shall let this wound fester, and when it finally scars up a little more and my gaping, bloody cut is simply a shiny line with a story of long ago attached to it, I might have organized myself enough to tell you all about it.