A Safe Place

Writing is my safe place. Whenever I am hurting I hurry to my journal and begin to unwind. I don't get overly complicated, I just write. Years ago I read the "Artists Way." It was an eye-opening experience. In the book was a way to express yourself and to be an "artist." I had kept a journal of sorts but never really did it in a disciplined way. I never thought of myself as an artist and still have a hard time using that term, but I did like the idea of a disciplined way of expressing myself. I have depression, so perhaps I have a propensity for emotional unraveling. A journal was perfect for the feelings I didn't know what to do with. A place to be safe with all my complicated thoughts and unwieldy feelings.
Trust is a thing I have a tough time with. Perhaps that is why I go to the written word as a way to express myself. It goes back to childhood when things were too complicated to figure out. Today things are much simpler. I still feel as if I am going to meltdown at times, but it doesn't happen. I just feel as if I might.
I don't know why I have always liked the idea of art, the skill that comes from drawing, painting and sculpting. I liked the idea of creating. In a way it was a safe way to be noticed and occasionally admired. Artists were also in my way of seeing things, special. I know when I began to feel this way. It was the first time I saw a comic strip. It was the first time an aunt drew a silly picture. It was the first time a teacher came over and admired what I had done. To me that was a lot of positive things that happened in a less than perfect time. Art was another safe place for me.