Five-Minute Freewriting: Write

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This prompt is easy for me today because all I’ve been thinking for the past month or so is I MUST WRITE.

Without writing, my mind gets heavy. And heavy, it has been. Words and thoughts swirl around in my head, and I can’t get rid of them. Then, I lay awake at night, and I don’t sleep. And then I wake up, and I’m grumpy because I didn’t sleep. And I’m grumpy that I have to go to work and not write or sleep.

I sit at my desk at work, I answer phone calls, I answer customer service chats, and I just. Want. To. Write. I want to run out of the office, speed home (maybe stop by Starbucks first—I feel more literary with coffee in hand) and write. Write all day. Stay up all night. Not have to worry about missing work or being to tired to do my job well.

Maybe some day my job will be to write. Oh, a girl can dream.

If only I didn’t have to go to work. I probably would stay up late and write whenever I wanted. I get these grand ideas as I’m falling asleep, and I have to fight every creative fiber in my being from flipping on the light and just writing until I fall asleep on my laptop. But the impending alarm I have set for 6 am hangs above my head, and I realize: I have to go to work. I can’t just call in and say, “Sorry, I had a great idea for a story or a blog or an article last night around 11 pm, so I stayed up until 4 am writing, and can’t stop now. On a roll.”

I have been writing since I was a kid. I read some of my old short stories from third grade, and I think: Damn, I had no qualms or hesitations back then. I was so confident. I wrote what I wanted to write. I didn’t worry about what people thought. I wrote a story about a unicorn. I wrote a story about a girl who had a crush on someone who liked someone else. I wrote in my diary multiple times a day. I read books. I didn’t let things get in the way of my passions, of the thing I was born to do.

I was meant to write. I am not myself unless I write. Even when it’s something as simple as this post. Moving my fingers along the keys, the soft clicking as I press them down, seeing the letters form on the screen, the blinking cursor… I’m pretty sure I dream about it at night along with beautiful journals and notebooks, pens, pencils, story webs, blog posts, and stacks of typed manuscripts

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Every Friday, join the blogosphere for five minutes of free-writing on a single-world prompt, and watch where the Muse takes you. Find out more about Five-Minute Fridays here.

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Five-Minute Freewriting: Last

So I failed at doing Five-Minute Fridays the past like, seven Fridays. So I’m catching up on them slowly but surely. So I’m calling it Five-Minute Freewriting because it’s not Friday, and I know I won’t be posting these on Fridays for a while until I can catch up.

This one’s prompt was: Last.

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The past year of my life has been a war. Me against myself. I guess spending the last seven years of my life trying to handle sickness, anxiety, and depression all my myself finally caught up to me. I finally cracked. It was painful and hard and overwhelming. I’ve never wept so many tears in the entirety of the rest of my 23 years of life combined than I did within a six month period this past year.

I would lie awake at night trying to calm my mind, rest my eyes, keep my body from shaking and quivering from pain, and frustration and fatigue would bubble into anxiety and anger that would rise up out of me from within—I don’t know where. I would weep until I fell asleep. The morning would bring sore eyes, tired skin, and fatigue. I had no other option. I just had weeping. So I did. And in the midst of it all, I remember crying out loud—to God, I presume—How long is this going to last? I wasn’t sure how long I would last if this was what life was going to be like for me—this out-of-nowhere, for no good reason, debilitating sadness, weariness, and anxiety was eating me away, and I had no power to stop it. I knew I couldn’t last living like that.

I had to get help. Nick would hold me, wipe my tears, pray for me—but I needed more help than that. I finally convinced myself I couldn’t last on my own.

So I sought out some help. A lot of help. A lot of prayer. A lot of tears and panic attacks and sleepless nights. But six months later, I am myself—though I myself can hardly recall who that is. But my mom tells me the old Kelsey is back—the one with life and heart and humor and laughter and a smile and energy and confidence. My dad told me there is light in my eyes again—that they’re blue, not grey, that they’re bright again. None of it was sudden; the changes were gradual, and quite painful.

But I’m here. I lasted. Some days are still battles. Some nights I weep. Sometimes I take a Xanax (hey, panic attacks happen). But I know that the sorrow lasts only for a night, and joy can come in the morning. Sometimes the joy is simply that you woke up and lasted the night.


 

Every Friday, join the blogosphere for five minutes of free-writing on a single-world prompt, and watch where the Muse takes you. Find out more about Five-Minute Fridays here.