When my mind is in turmoil, I find it difficult to write. I find it difficult, and yet, writing is the only thing that will clear my mind. The words, the worry need to come out of me and plop in messy goodness onto the page. You would think it would be enough simply to write. Sometimes, it is. Most the time, the process of writing is not enough. I need the writing to be viewed, to be validated, to be assessed. To be admired.
That's shameless and odd, I think.
The problem I have is that the issues bothering me when I need to write are not those I want to discuss ad nauseum with people I know. I want to write, allow the words and feelings to flow from me in an evacuation not-unlike someone attempting to rid themselves of food poisoning. However, I do not want to deal with the aftermath of that evacuation. The worry, the concern, the pity, the bletch. None of it.
And so, I stew. The words wander around my head. They circle my thoughts like little birds do cartoon characters who've been smacked with something. They envelope and frustrate and worry and erode and bore into my head.
It's hard to tell what is actual worry and what is just me fretting about things outside my control. Or, knowledge I have to face things greater than I am capable of.