Jumble

I can't stop writing. I feel like that should be good, but I'm not sure. Most inexplicable impulses I have are suspect to me; I wonder if they're part of my alcoholic process. Writing's one of the weird things in my life. At some of the times I had the most to write about, I couldn't write at all, and yet in drawn-out months like this one, the words itch at my fingertips to be digitized, collected, and thrown up on my little online diary. I'm not sure why I do the last part. No one reads it that I know of (I'm pretty sure it's not linked to or from anywhere.) I think it's so I can have a semi-permanent record of my feelings, my writing, my progression as a person.

If someone were to ask me why I write, which I'm pretty sure has never happened, I've already got the line and inflection memorized. "Well, it's cheaper than therapy." Despite the fact that my HMO covers all but co-pay on therapeutic visits, there is a certain truth to such a flip answer. I write because I want to reveal my feelings. If I had someone I felt I could unburden my entire self onto, I don't know that I would need to write, at least not in the manner in which I am now. It would probably be more satisfying and constructive. I have a couple people in my life who I think would listen to what I need to say without waiting for their turn to talk. But whenever I search for the words with someone else in the room, they just seem to disappear.

The fantastic thing about the written word is that, were I to stop writing right here and come back fifteen years later, you'd still perceive this as the same sentence. I'm horrible at dealing with time constraints, and yet whenever I write my thoughts like this they come pouring out nearly too quickly for me to put them down. But when spoken, the words need a beat, and I can't revise them or keep myself from tripping over my own tongue. And sometimes the fear of being misinterpreted or just weird keeps me from saying what I want/need to say.