Flee this life
More than nostalgia, there is something so comforting about reading my old journal notes. The younger version of myself would rant, like any normal angsty teenager, so mindlessly yet articulately. I wonder where that freedom had gone.
My therapist Lala once asked me why I stopped writing. I still write, of course; that’s one of two things I mostly do at work. From time to time, I also update this blog.
What she was referring to, however, was the kind of writing I espoused a decade ago — one that’s melodramatic, often clouded with hyperboles but always rooted in spur-of-the-moment ideas. Ramblings, my younger self would say.
It’s this sort of journaling that opened and immersed myself to a labyrinthine discovery of who I was, what I wanted to do with my life, and how I felt. Writing was catharsis, but it was also therapy, allowing me to process my experiences and emotions, no matter how excruciatingly mundane or potentially life-changing they were.
The question was Lala’s response to my sharing: that one night, I came home from work and cried so helplessly that to keep myself from embarrassing myself, I watched a dramatic classic film, Ghost.
I needed a reason for that episode of ugly crying so I gave myself one.
Was I too tired? Was I triggered? I couldn’t recall because I kept no record other than my faulty memory.
For a while, I just let Lala’s question brew in my head, letting it steep and simmer — isn’t it obvious I don’t quite know my kitchen terms? — while I address other matters. The answer makes itself known when it is ready to be digested.
The truth is: It hurts to remember.
Call it self-preservation; say it’s cowardice. Writing is part of the process of knowing thyself; it explores the inner workings of one’s mind, and I don’t want it.
So I stopped writing. At least the way I used to. It’s avoidance at its core.
When I read my old journal notes, I feel envious of that lady whose fingers penned open letters and spontaneous musings. There is something so comforting about the thought that I was once her. And it goes beyond nostalgia. •
My therapist Lala once asked me why I stopped writing. I still write, of course; that’s one of two things I mostly do at work. From time to time, I also update this blog.
What she was referring to, however, was the kind of writing I espoused a decade ago — one that’s melodramatic, often clouded with hyperboles but always rooted in spur-of-the-moment ideas. Ramblings, my younger self would say.
It’s this sort of journaling that opened and immersed myself to a labyrinthine discovery of who I was, what I wanted to do with my life, and how I felt. Writing was catharsis, but it was also therapy, allowing me to process my experiences and emotions, no matter how excruciatingly mundane or potentially life-changing they were.
The question was Lala’s response to my sharing: that one night, I came home from work and cried so helplessly that to keep myself from embarrassing myself, I watched a dramatic classic film, Ghost.
I needed a reason for that episode of ugly crying so I gave myself one.
Was I too tired? Was I triggered? I couldn’t recall because I kept no record other than my faulty memory.
For a while, I just let Lala’s question brew in my head, letting it steep and simmer — isn’t it obvious I don’t quite know my kitchen terms? — while I address other matters. The answer makes itself known when it is ready to be digested.
The truth is: It hurts to remember.
Call it self-preservation; say it’s cowardice. Writing is part of the process of knowing thyself; it explores the inner workings of one’s mind, and I don’t want it.
So I stopped writing. At least the way I used to. It’s avoidance at its core.
When I read my old journal notes, I feel envious of that lady whose fingers penned open letters and spontaneous musings. There is something so comforting about the thought that I was once her. And it goes beyond nostalgia. •