Writing As A Form Of Therapy

@Twilightsomniac

Beautiful poem.

I have often been insomniac and love your name including that subtle mix of light and dark ... the twilight.

There is a concept of the Long Dark Night of the Soul.

Mine lasted a long time, and I really never thought I would see the light.

I believe there is a lot of power in the different arts especially in helping us express various aspects of ourselves.

I am a little nuanced when I use concepts such in, or out of touch with reality.

I see it more in a psychosocial sense (that new buzzword). Sometimes we need to go so deep inside and lick our inner wounds and come to terms with our circumstances, whether they be in current time, or during formation years.

For a long time, now I have respect for darkness in a positive way. Eg., The darkness in a rich fertile soil that is not too sandy or red with clay. It produces. Sometimes darker light can be a haven from too brutal a searing spotlight. It can allow us to rest. I love the moon at night or the shade of a tree. Of course there is a balance needed and sunshine has its wonderful side too.

Each person's soul journey is unique. Wishing you the best in yours.

Apple

Hi @Appleblossom,

Thankyou for your reply 😊

I didn't really think to much about my user name just I have insomnia and I like the term Twilight. But like like your take on it.

I've had a lot of down/hard days lately and writing helps me I don't personally think that what I write is poetry considering what I got taught at school about poetry I kinda hated that aspect of English class

But I just write the way I think and feel at the time.

When I talk about losing touch with reality I'm referring to my DID, I spend a lot of time internally letting other alters run the show because it's easier but the more I shift back the harder it is for me to come back forward.

I find it scary when I get comfortable with the darkness because as weird as it sounds at least I know what to expect it's just that constantly being in a dark place mentally is draining and takes its toll.

But I'm not completely alone I have my hubby and son and other support people. But I find that I have trouble relying on other's to help especially with the way I grew up as I was the one everyone else relied on and now I cant help them the way I used to because I need help and I've ignored or pushed my needs away for a long time. But some of them dont seem to care.

Anyway I'm babbling now but thankyou and hope you are doing well

Made sense to me @Twilightsomniac

Also as a woman, wife and mother, relational modes are primary. Maybe we divided ourselves up to be there for the different people in our pasts, and maybe some consolidation of an individual unique self, will help over time.

hello my @Wanderer , @Appleblossom , @Silenus , @Twilightsomniac , @petrichor , @BlueBay

Hello @Silenus , @Twilightsomniac , @Appleblossom , @petrichor , @BlueBay xx

Hi Everyone

What a lovely thread! There are some very talented souls posting here.

I just wanted to shout out that I’ve only been posting fairly regularly for over a year or so. I found it difficult to contribute at first as it took me a while to find my own groove and get over the fear that I wouldn’t fit in.

Now that time has moved on and I’m persevering I am finding the actual process of writing my thoughts about “stuff” has become a necessary part of helping me to unpack what’s in my head.

Moving from the anxious and incredibly emotional to a calmer space where even looking at my own words provides me with some much needed reflection and sanity-check.

I cannot believe how confronting it is to see what I really think (sometimes it’s just awful). First drafts can be less than ideal. But I do have a rule to “play it straight” for myself. It also means that many of my posts take a great deal of time as I want to get them “right”.

And so I guess there’s power in the written word.

I have always loved to write. From my earliest school days I enjoyed putting my thoughts and experiences down on that fresh, clean, waiting page. Later I realised that I could express myself more easily on paper than I could when speaking face to face with someone. When, later still, it became apparent to me that I was different from other people in various ways, it became more important still to write. That way I did not have to share my words (and therefore my thoughts) with anyone and so did not have to face the unexpected surprise, shock, resentment, anger, disgust or other frightening response that might come from them.

I found that I could not understand other people. I could not predict what reaction they would have to my always well-intentioned words. Becoming increasingly self-conscious, I communicated less and less by speaking. I was protecting myself from the hurt of others - those whom I knew did not understand me. I became aware that others thought me odd, stand-offish, arrogant, self-opinionated. The result was, though, that I was becoming an isolate, a social recluse, super-sensitive and self-protective at any cost.

It was much, much later that I finally learned from a therapist that my "oddness" was in fact a personality disorder, of genetic or other cause, for which I myself was not to blame. But blame and misjudgement I surely suffered: from family members, ashamed of the stigma that I had brought upon them; from work colleagues who found my mood changes uncomfortable; from doctors who concluded my constant concerns about problems of dizziness, nausea, stomach pains and chest palpitations were signs of my hypochondria.

The depression that flew in and flew out of my every day for many years has finally turned into a dark. threatening, ever-present cloud that chokes my view of the sun and stifles light-heartedness and joy. My struggles, finally, have dragged me through to old age. I am now an octogenarian, an old woman - isolated, reclusive and still "rather odd."

For me it is worse now than it was through all those years before. Today I do not have the highs in between, none of the delights of being fit and confident and capable of doing ANYTHING. None of the pleasure of coming inside on so many days from the fragrantly abundant garden, my self covered with perspiration and grime, but knowing that treasured, wondrous place was as perfect as I could make it in the eight hours I had just toiled there.

Writing is my main form of communication, now that I am elderly, frail and living alone with my dog. I am suffering considerable pain from back and hip problems, struggle to walk, contend with the multiple problems of IBS - its stomach aches, nausea and discomfort. But that old, BIG problem is ever with me, for I am "odd". I have borderline personality disorder.

Fortunately, my dog loves me, just as I am.

Hi @Silenus

So good to see you're back!!

Hi everyone,

I’ve been skimming over some of the poems and will read again once head not feeling foggy. Some wonderful talent in these ‘pages’.

writing for therapy …. I don’t do poems, I write my happy memories which helps me

Hard psych sessions lately so decided to write about feelings from my last one before my next appointment tomorrow

I find it annoying when people say I place too much blame on you for the past

But you don't even acknowledge I do this

Or just completly oblivious

I try so hard to show a separation between us

But the more I distance myself you think our relationship is thriving

My feelings of hurt and betrayal don't even show on your radar

As you so focused on what affects you no matter who is around you

People question why I blame you for what others did to me

Well none of it would have happened if you gave a dam about me

But instead of protection you left me to defend for myself

This lead to me putting myself in harms way to protect the more vulnerable

Even at a young age I had to fill the spot you left vacant

You should have kept the darkness of the world at bay

Instead you invited it in and looked the other way

I became destroyed inside

Just fragmented pieces

You look at me through your rose glasses

Tell people that I'm thriving when really I'm only surviving

Someone who thrives looks to the future with joy

I look at tomorrow and wonder if I'll see another day.

Despite how broken I am inside I still do my job

You may not see it but you failed in yours

I know you were broken too and destroyed inside

But as a mother you take on the responsibility to ensure that your kids don't get hurt the same way

But you didn't do that and it's what hurts the most

You didn't even try when you should have

You repeated the mistakes done to you instead of learning from them

I am broken and I don't pretend I am prefect

I make mistakes but at least I'm trying to break the neglect cycle

I treasure my children

I protect them from harm

I shield them from the darkness

I fix broken pieces

I help them to thrive

I still make mistakes

But at least they won't be broken adults

I may be only surviving but I survive for them

Because if I keep surviving and doing my job my kids will thrive and be able to pass it on