Actually, I needed to write.
Writing has always been my way of understanding myself. I am not usually good at actually putting my finger on what is going on with me.
Sometimes I’m happy, sad, angry or the usual nervous… but I don’t really know why. It is not uncommon for other people to point out to me what is causing my emotion.
Keeping an actual journal has always been my therapy. It turns out, I was not wrong when acting so instinctively. I read this somewhere online:
Whether it’s daily diary entries, poems written on a whim, or letters to people you’ll never actually send…it’s therapeutic, to say the least.
It made me smile. Like I was doing something write. Something good for myself.
I knew that already, though…