I’m interested in the way people feel. It gets stronger as I get older. I haven’t really chosen it… it sort of creeps up on me. Perhaps it’s because I’m not terribly good at understanding my own emotions. Ha. It also reminds me of those people who became counsellors or health professionals to help themselves. I always imagined this field was probably full of these people. When they should probably just have had the help. Perhaps they do in the end.
I’m finding myself in the position of writing the ‘self-confessional blog’. It doesn’t bother me, but other peoples’ reactions to it are sometimes interesting. It’s getting to the extent where people have been asking me recently if I’m ok. I’m like, yeah – why wouldn’t I be?
‘We read your blog and are a bit worried about you.’
Ok. Now I even get words like, ‘Relax,’ and, ‘You sound anxious,’ and, ‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’
Well, I guess there is nothing worse then middle-aged feelings. I mean who the hell wants to listen to that? Except that my talking therapy has become my typing therapy. Almost a year ago, the New Year’s resolution was to write 500 words a day. And this means, that unless you’re a celebrity who loves to gossip or you have never-ending factual information to share, you’re probably going to end up writing about your feelings. Your regrets. Your hopes. The shitty day you’ve just had. Sometimes even the good one. And this is essentially rooted in cathartics. When I press the publish button, I always recoil a bit. ‘What are you thinking?’ I think. You’re sending this highly personal, painful and intimate internal conversation out into the world?
Yep. You just did. Aha.