January 09, 2003
When the Voices Overrun

Writing does strange things to my psychology.

I have been so many people throughout my life. I have shifted and changed and discovered new aspects of myself. I have adapted to what my life is, and on occasion, railed against that as well.

Right now, I am married and a mother of two. My life is changing yet again, professionally, and in a better way I believe. I am really looking forward to the advent of those changes, and there is almost a date set for me to look forward to. It'll be a big difference, and a welcome one.

I have started writing again. When I last wrote, at least intensively, I wasn't the same person I am now. I hung out with different friends in some cases, and the social scenes I went through were different. There were different influences, different callings to the voices inside my head.

In some ways, I liked myself better back then. In some ways, I didn't.

Writing again throws me backwards in time, in part, in terms of headspace. It makes the voices rise up. They aren't babbling coherently yet (if they were, I'd be writing a hell of a lot more easily!). But they are there, roiling under the surface of my thoughts.

And I find myself on edge, as if waiting for something to happen. I am introspective, looking into things. I am far more lighthearted, yet there is something out there that I am waiting for. The other shoe to drop. I find myself wanting to go places and be the me that was freer, easier of heart. Someone who was more comfortable in a crowd, someone who did not feel she needed to hold back on things she thought or felt.

God, that's starting to make me feel loose. Which so isn't the truth. That is one thing I certainly have never been.

But I always was very physical. I hugged people. I reached out and touched them to get their attention. I curled up on the couch with my friends and felt their contact, felt them as a part of my space. I understand the werecreatures in the Anita Blake books. They crave contact. It isn't sexual or wrong. It just is.

For some reason, writing brings back that part of me. The part that misses curling up in a pile of friends and watching movies, just being comfortable. I am tired of being proper. I am tired of being isolated. Writing is an outlet for so much of it, but it is still isolated. It is still inside my head, and still just me.

Sometimes I wonder if it is better to let those parts of me just stay where they were.

But then I realize that no, I'm happier now. I've been upbeat and cheerful. Something I haven't been in a couple of years. I'm not snapping peoples' heads off as often. I am more myself. And that I do need. Otherwise I will work myself into a grave.

And I'm not ready for that. Not for a VERY long time.

Posted by Deb Atwood at January 09, 2003 09:51 PM | TrackBack
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