little by little

The fact is, I haven't written more than a grocery list in well over two years. Very strange for a person who has journals dating back to grade 4. I have my whole life's growth, regressions, mistakes, risks and happiness written down in a journal. All my journals are now in my cedar and oak chest, in my office. Ready at will to spill my inner secrets, outer woes and everything I could imagine in between. But there's a gap. As though my story has stopped, when it most certainly has not.

The only other time in my life which I didn't write was after Matt died. I didn't write for the whole 9 months after that. I couldn't, wasn't physically able to. Funny how my coping mechanism for almost everything else in my life seems to not exist as an option when I need it most.

I remember my first journal entry after her died. It was after my period of denial. After I went crazy. After I pushed away every person in my life. It was when I was trying to put my pieces back together again. It was when I was climbing the hill, from the valley and I could almost see the plateau on top.

But, I've been on this plateau for quite some time now. Almost a year. It's been almost a year since I was seriously sick. I mean sure, there were bad days starting off, but nothing that would ever compare to the pain and outbursts of before. I got out. I left the backwards medical system behind me where they said I may never get better, and set off into my own journey with my will and need to get better to drive me.

It's a process. It's still happening. This is part of the process. Re-emerging into myself, my writing. The fear that once I write down that I'm happy and healthy again, everything will begin dismantling is still strong. It's sitting beside me as I type. But, writing used to be mine and I'm reclaiming it.