They say that writing is the writer’s own therapy, their way to make sense of the world around them. It was that for me, but after leaving my therapist, facing what I faced at the doctor yesterday, and coming home to a dog who no matter what we did to him (when he was sick mind you), he runs to the door like he has not seen me in a month…I realized that while it might be my therapy, it’s also my saving grace.
Pious bull? Maybe. I won’t lie, the thought that my opinions and thoughts are now out for people to see and maybe, just maybe agree with me is tempting. It’s also terrifying. When I am on an up and look at what I wrote when I was down, so, so far down it.terrifies.me. Bone chilling terror.
How could I have thought that? God, was I really that close too…?
Yes. Yes you were and only the Devil/God/Buddha knows why you pulled away from the edge of the cliff again.
So it might be my therapy, it might be what jolts me into reality from my fuzzy, pill filled world. I know what it is for sure.
It is my safety net that keeps me from falling off the ledge of sobriety I am walking on.