Journaling is something that’s recommended by most therapists and other healthcare professionals and I totally understand how it can help. Many of us with anxiety and other issues have a tendency to internalize things which can create an insidious internal inferno of lava-like emotions that, eventually, must be depressurized — somehow. There are lots of ways to deactivate before destruction and you don’t have to tie yourself to any particular method, but you should find at least a few that work for you.
Journaling doesn’t work for me because I get too deep into one part of something and twenty minutes later, well before I’ve actually averted the impending eruption, I’m exhausted. I dug a little too deep where I didn’t need to and now I’m over the whole journaling thing. But just because journaling doesn’t work for me, doesn’t mean it won’t work for you. You’re probably much better at focusing and maintaining said focus than I am. If you haven’t tried this particular method of avoiding a melt-down, try it! There’s no specific time or place, it’s all up to you. I’d suggest that you find a place where you can be comfortable and as secluded as is possible for you; where you’ll have the least distractions and interruptions. Once you’re comfy, just let it flow. Don’t worry about spelling or grammar or even flow, shoot. Whatever comes out on that paper or screen (if you prefer to type) is just as it should be. You don’t have to apologize or worry about someone correcting or judging you, this is just for you.
How are you feeling? Was there something or someone that triggered this feeling? Or maybe it was a place or an event? Is there something that you did or said that you wish you could change? What is it? What would you have said or done differently? Why would this have made things different?
You don’t have to answer any of those questions, this has nothing to do with me. Write until you’re done. No one is keeping time or track of this, it’s whatever you want it be for however long you need it to be. Five minutes or five hundred minutes.
Although journaling isn’t my preferred peace-finding tool, I love writing and I’ve found that poetry helps me put those pesky day-in-the-life-of-Kerissa demons to rest. I don’t usually do this, but I trust you, we’re homies, so I’m going to share one of my poems; one that may speak to anyone with self-image issues, like me. *deep breath* You absolutely don’t have to read it, the important part of today’s post was my sharing the journaling thing, so if you’re not into poetry or not interested in reading on, guess what? Nobody is judging you and you are under no obligation. Peace out and take care of yourself!!
Anyone interested…here goes…
Terrorizing Trash Taken to Task
It’s just a mirror, I’d hear myself saying, just a harmless mirror.
It’s just a mirror, just some glass covered in plastic and recycled cans ground up into dust.
It’s just a mirror, some sad piece of various refuse that someone figured out how to make a fortune with.
It’s just a mirror, and its beginnings are as its ends — trash that became someone’s treasure chest and someone’s worst enemy.
When I look in the mirror, I see the 5–7 pounds of extra “I could stand to lose a few” pounds that remain pounds I could stand to lose, but generally just sit on.
And me, in my heart and soul and spirit, I don’t see a damn thing wrong with the junk in my trunk.
As I sit here writing this ode to things that have been, unquestionably, closer than they appeared,
I don’t have a problem with the cellulite on the side of my thighs, and my ass, if I’m being honest, either.
I can talk all this “proud to have some curves” talk right now because I’m in pajamas that are generally pretty lenient, scale-wise.
But as soon as I start my ministrations to face the general public, that’s when they come to life.
The first one, oh, she always has to have the first dig.
That nasty bitch that lives somewhere between my pajama happiness and the recycled trash covered glass that litters my apartment.
In her defense, she lives on Haterade and, in fact, is a proud spokesperson for it.
And the bitch has been starving for longer than she’ll admit without being held at gunpoint.
She’s the facet of my schizophrenic tendencies that loves to suggest, point out examples of, and then confirm that yes, those jeans make me look fat.
And so does my face, she cackles.
These schizophrenic habits, these unwanted commentators, these pains in my ass and the associated cellulite thereon,
they were originally taken in as a sort of “pilot program.”
Pretend versions of me but with other people’s preferred personality traits, you know, just to get my foot in the door.
My collection of mes, my schizophrenic entourage, they were supposed to raise my game, make me “trendy.”
They were supposed to enhance my reputation in “the network,” you know, so that my networking efforts didn’t cancel the premium channels and run me dry.
The now semi-permanent habits have staked their territory in my gray matter, with no thank you or gratitude for my hospitality.
Each of these delusion-loving delinquents has taken ownership of an area of my reality that was not for sale by owner.
Each one of the misguided miscreants pays homage to that pile of recycled trash covered glass all over my hard-earned walls.
Each one points out areas of concern with respect to their various areas of interest, from my huge feet to my wide nose and large cranium.
Each one of those pretentious pee-ons has no right and, dammit, no business, trying to usurp my sweet, unassuming and accepting pajama’s authority with regard to “Hot or Not.”
What was that, you little no-bodies? YES, Yoga pants are appropriate. I’m RUNNING errands.
Each one snickers loudly behind closed hands every time I get brave (or drunk)
and stand in front of the pile of trash in the designer outfit I got from the Big G, Himself.
It’s just a mirror…that has selfishly kept my true confidence hostage for more than 2/3 of my life.
It’s just a mirror that I’ve gauged my self-worth through, verdict being LACKING, 9.5 times out of 10.
It’s just a mirror that has no idea what a wonderful heart and soul and spirit and, dammit, a damn fine funny bone, are up in this bootylicious jelly friendly wonderland.
It’s just a mirror that keeps my cover up sarong covering up something it says is wrong and then says the similarity is no coincidence.
It’s just a mirror, just a trash talking pile of trash that’s only real claim to fame is a sad story about a girl taking a nap.
It’s just a sad piece of various refuse; a hunk of what was once just sand, covered in plastic and recycled cans that were ground into dust, like the sand that it started with.
It’s just a piece of furniture that was here when I bought the place.
Most importantly, it’s just that thing that lost its right to vote anything other than “Damn girl, you look fine.”