self-help...

When I was younger, I use to like to read self-help books. The subject changed as my own issues did. Sometimes it was because I was overweight...sometimes it was because I felt like a failure as a parent ...sometimes it was because I felt powerless...sometimes because I was depressed. It's funny that as I reflect; as I honestly look back on those times, I'm not sure I ever read a self-help book with the expectation of actually changing. I was simply educating myself on subjects that I was already, unfortunately an expert in.

People talk to therapists for many different reasons, but is it the therapist that helps them see more clearly? Or, is it the act of acknowledging, out loud, with one's own mouth...an affirmation, if you will...that there is a problem; a problem in need of a solution, or at least a resolution that brings the problem and it's solution into focus? I've never been a diary kind of a girl. I've tried many times...bought lots of cute notebooks; even pens with fluff, but I never write for more than a week. I write like I talk...long winded and full of detail. I try to remember the minutiae of each day. My hand gets tired, and I become bored, tired, dissatisfied, and disinterested. It's not that I don't like to write. Sometimes, I write just about my feelings on my computer, but I never considered "publishing" my private...sometimes depressing...sometimes neurotic thoughts.

A good friend started a blog. I guess I didn't really understand blogs, at least not ones like his. I ignorantly thought blogs were purely to gather information on a subject from people far away...typing on computers...too lazy to get up and find out...too scared to ask in person. As I read his entries, I came to a conclusion; a revelation if you will. He thinks his blog is for others, but it's really for himself as well; a therapy session for one...and all. I love to read his blogs, because I learn things; honest, vulnerable, real things about him...and myself too I guess.

It occurred to me the other night at 1:30a.m. as I sat and mused at my own thoughts...quietly in my closet...that putting your deepest fears...thoughts...feelings out there for anyone to see is like self-help, only more productive than reading a book. Reading about a problem or a fear in a book, keeps us at arm's length. It keeps our secrets. It keeps it impersonal. It keeps us from being accountable. I can close that book and continue on in the same way as I have, day after day, with no change...feeling like a victim of circumstance; powerless to change.

Sitting at my computer... thinking...remembering...revealing...admitting, out loud in a sense how I really feel, is freeing. It's freeing and binding, because now I know. I know and others know. Once I know, I have a responsibility to do...to change...at least to accept and to find peace.

I've made lots of changes in my life...especially in the last couple of years, but I haven't always found the peace that my soul hungers for. So I will write as I feel inspired to...about whatever I want to write...serious or silly; important or petty...about me...my thoughts...fears...worries...and joys, in hopes that through this introspective exercise, I will come to know myself; to like myself; to help myself.