Desperately in need of a conversation. Not just any conversation. One about how I’m feeling. Why I’m feeling it. Inexplicable. But not really.
But who? Who to put in the position of trying to understand what I’m rambling about in my mind?
Journaling helps. I feel like the pen is being pushed by forces outside of myself. Words come out in a rush. I smile. They actually make sense. I’m having a conversation with myself. Every so often my writer separates herself out to get some perspective. She’s got this.
Sometimes this is what embracing your artist looks like. Letting her take you somewhere. Grand. Deep. Macabre. Way too honest. Into those places. Residing there all the time would be a road to madness. But the writer, she is wise. Do not mess with her. Go with her. Trust her. She’s got this.
Imminently more satisfied, relieved, I push aside the notebook and pen. OK.
I call Mom. She hears a hitch in my voice. Asks what’s wrong. I fight back tears. Nothing different. Same ol’ thing …
She launches into a theory about what’s really wrong. It is essentially what I have just written in my journal. And so I tear up again and can’t answer when she asks, “That’s probably not it, but maybe a little bit?” My hesitation leads her to believe she’s off base. When I can find my voice I tell her she nailed it. Really nailed it. I can hear her smile.
Two conversations for me. When I really needed them.