I wrote my way out
When the world turned its back on me
I was up against the wall
I had no foundation
No friends and no family to catch my fall
Running on empty, there was nothing left in me but doubt
I picked up a pen
And I wrote my way out (I wrote my way out)
Writing has always been an important part of my life. Sometimes more than others, depending my my mental state or how many opiates I am taking. I have been writing since I was 8-years old. I am now 55 (almost 56!).
I have written out the pain 10,000 times (or more) and yet there seems an endless cesspool of shit to purge onto the paper. Why is that? It’s rather annoying.
I am in an empty place right now, Hamilton’s words resonating deeply. It is tempting to turn to others for refilling, but when I do, there is always a hole somewhere, their validation leaking out, leaving me empty again. It is up to me… the filling, topping off, maintaining and keeping it (me) level so there is no sloshing over the edges.
The truth is, no matter who is in my life, I am really on my own. I need to hold my own hand for comfort, hug myself when I am sad and wipe my own tears. I don’t know how many times I need to learn this lesson, but clearly, I have not learnt it yet.
So I write.
I write to lessen the pain in my heart, to lift the weight on my chest. I write while crying in order to let go of my worries and concerns. I write when I feel I have nothing left to say. I always seem to find more words…
…and I wrote my way out.