Sometimes, I like to write things.
That hasn't happened for a while.
Or at least it's not happened of my own free will.
I write a lot of crap day-in, day-out at work; sat in front of the computer filling in forms like a trained ape. That was never in the job description. At home I reply to one email after another, start another forum post. Its not that I was ever massively creative with my writing. I'm not a very creative person. But when the mood takes me, my fingers can type away pages of text with minimal amount of cognitive effort.
Reading a few blog posts from inspiring individual reminded me that I'd started a blog once. Once upon a time in my deep, dark past. I dug it up. A year of musings, ramblings. It's a rather alarming collection of entries. An anonymous blog, trying to explore my own mental health during a highly distressing 12 months and within that blog, you'd think I'd manage to pour some honesty on to the pages. I didn't manage.
I look at those words and they're clipped. Half-truths. Alarming due to the lack of honesty within them.
It documents a year I was living with my ex-partner. A relationship that did not succeed; that was filled with hurt and anger, based on my misguided "need" for love. It demonstrates how utterly unable I was to look at my own big picture, to assess and analyse my biggest problems. It shows to me, now, how must I lacked in self-awareness, self-confidence and self-esteem.
I'm not much better these days. But I think I'm better able to say that. That I know I'm not great at these things, but I know I ought to be. I am ready for change.
