I keep problems to myself. Until they reach a point I can’t control.
My curse is that I like to help people at the expense of myself. I kept all my bad shit to myself. I would cut off my leg to help someone walk. That’s a problem right?
I once sat on a couch talking to a stranger in his office. I’m telling him about my younger life. I’m telling him about my younger life. I don’t like talking about the past. Ventilation.
Writing is an outlet. An exit. It makes me sane. Makes me feel like I’m in reality. Sometimes when I can’t write, I feel trapped. Like I’m locked up in a padded room with one window and the view outside is nothing but fog.
I’m sat on a different couch talking to a female stranger in her office. I’m telling her about my struggles. I don’t talk to people about my pain.
But it felt good for a change. It was a good release.
Ventilation. It’s a good release.