A streak of madness

I’ve been writing since I could hold a pen and form words but in my mid-30’s I went into therapy; it was needed and necessary, and I stopped writing. Perhaps I got sane enough that I didn’t need to write, or I learned to share my thoughts and feelings face to face. Once I thought in poetry and was constantly scribbling, it was a NEED, I needed to write. Three years of therapy and the need was gone. I missed writing. I felt I had given up my creativity for a modicum of sanity. Ah, but there was an upside.

I have always been a person of words, not pictures. I was never a visual person; I still skip all the descriptive bits in stories other than what the people look like. But having lost the need to write; to immerse and surround myself with words I became a more visual person. I could close my eyes and watch the stories I used to write. It was then that my “psychic” ability started to manifest itself. I traded one type of creativity for another but my need to write is greatly missed. And I’m not so sure the trade was a good one.

I have spent some time re-reading my “stuff”, all written between the ages of 10 and 35, and some of it is damn good, I mean damn good. Even the prose, the diary entries – some interesting thoughts, well written. I coulda been a contender!

If I had known that therapy would take away my need to write, and consequently my “talent”, would I still have gone through it? My first reaction is to say “Yes”. As messed up and neurotic as I am now I was way worse before (I know, I know, you are all reading this and saying to yourselves “Good grief, the woman must have been certifiable back then”). My second, more considered reaction is also “Yes”. I had a knack for words, nothing more. And joking aside, I am way more sane now. The words are now pictures; now I hear and see. But still I miss the poetry.

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