Lately I’ve been writing a lot. Perhaps “a lot” is an understatement. The volume of words pouring out of my head lately is like water rushing from a reservoir through  a burst dam.

I’m enjoying it. It’s not all great or even good, but it’s cathartic.

I’m trying to avoid finding reasons for it because that feels a little like when my anxiety spikes and I start looking for reasons… often, there are none, and anything I suspect can become the manufactured reason after the fact, sending me down unhealthy and obsessive paths.

To say I enjoy writing is like saying a bird enjoys flying or a fish enjoys swimming. I mean, maybe, sometimes… but that’s beside the point.

I feel fortunate to have stumbled across writing at a young age. I believe it has helped me cope with life. It’s a hobby and an addiction and a medication all rolled into one.

Sometimes, I wonder if there’s more to it, though. I mean, I could write in a paper journal or on a secret website… why share myself, and by association others, so intimately?

I think maybe part of it is an irrational fear of secrets. As a child, I was told things like “don’t tell anyone about this” or “make sure your mum doesn’t find out” etc. and these things became burdens over time. They were heavy. These secret parts of me.  They hurt.

When the occasion occurred that I could release a secret, the feeling of unchained lightness was so powerful as to be addictive.

I think I chase that feeling with some of my writing. To be known is to be unburdened of secrets… at least for me.

Of course, being a bit of an over-sharer by nature doesn’t help. There’s always fuel for the fire, so to speak. It makes people uncomfortable. The way a man crying in the middle of a supermarket might make people uncomfortable.

So I write. I let people read it, and in so doing, I feel known and a little less burdened by some secret me I have to hide from the world. Public me and private me overlap as much as they can.

I’m still trying to learn that privacy can be healthy… or perhaps the better way to say it is I’m still trying to heal a lot of damage inflicted on me a long time ago by people who should have known better. By people who did know better but didn’t care enough not to put their own needs ahead of mine.

And here I am writing about it. Surprised? Me neither.