Reading, Writing, Calling, Feeling

Why should I write?

I have been most ministered to in my life by words. Sometimes spoken, but most often written. I have a small selection of books that I turn to when the world is spinning around me too fast and my feelings can't quite catch up with me. I feel my emotions breathing down my neck, telling me they have things to teach me. But I just walk faster, sometimes I break into a run. I throw weapons of busyness at them, sometimes in the form of work, but just as often in the name of stupid things like social media and Netflix. Sometimes I try to stuff them away as I stuff junk food into my face.

They wait patiently while I fight the very thing that brings wisdom and healing every time.

When I write, I let them come. It hurts, and I only do it as a last resort, when they are bearing down on me, looking scary, but in actuality they are full of nothing but wisdom and healing.

I write for myself. To process, to heal.

I am working up the courage to share what I write so that I can help others like me process and heal, as well.

I struggle with allowing myself to be vulnerable. I've come a long way, and I have a long way to go.

The words of others have shaped me, healed me, guided me.

I feel something inside me stretching sometimes. Stretching to get out and connect. I don't like it, to be honest. I'm not sure what to name that thing. It's already named "calling", I suspect. It's calling for me to uncurl into the farthest corners of who I was made to be. It's calling for me to let others in and to let myself out fully, because that is what an all powerful, all knowing creator designed me for. Designed us all for.

If we fully stretch into what we were created to be, how much power is in that? Or, how much pain and humiliation? That is what those feelings breathing down my neck are trying to walk me through right now.