(Originally written June 30, 2014)
The hardest part of writing, I've come to believe, is confrontation. When you are forced to look at your thoughts, bare and shameful and there, and acknowledge yourself as their creator. The human in which insecurities and anxieties fester and dwell.
My modus operandi has always been predicated on avoidance. You cannot confront something that is not present. If you don't talk about it, if you pay it no attention and deny its existence, you will not have to deal with it. A persistent denial of recognition, my mind would have me believe, can eventually eradicate a problem entirely.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Writing, especially in the form of a journal or personal essay, does not indulge this fantastical way of thinking. It produces a tangible product from the throes of abstraction. What was once your greatest worry is transformed, abruptly, into an even more terrifying reality.
This is my attempt to unearth the roots of my tendency to withdraw, to shut down.