On Coping, Self-Medicating and Writing

I was in one of my funks last Monday: discouraged and dejected. I responded in a few different ways: I went to the gym, I took Spike to the dog park, I had another gin and tonic, and I wrote. 

One of these things is not like the other. Going to the gym and dog park are good for me. They get me out of the house and get me thinking about other things. Exercise is a stress reliever; walking around the dog park with Spike is relaxing.  It's hard to stay angry or depressed when Spike is smiling at me. Just look at him.

Now, about drinking: there's nothing wrong with enjoying cocktails, but there is a danger in self-medicating too much.

That brings me to writing. Most of my writing is in the form of journaling, usually morning pages. Morning pages are a great place to vent. Sometimes (unfortunately rarely) the pages provide some kind of insight.

Several months ago, I decided to write a piece about a woman--Amy--who reluctantly went home for Thanksgiving. Amy didn't want to go home, but felt obligated. There was some kind of family dysfunction, but I didn't determine what it was. Amy left Monday to travel home, but stayed in a hotel for two nights, to avoid dealing with her mother. She self-meditated by drinking, smoking a joint, taking Valium.

Amy was not only going home for Thanksgiving, but also for a family wedding. As I wrote, things happened that I hadn't thought about previously, For example, the wedding was between Amy's cousin and her old boyfriend.

When I opened the file a few weeks ago to continue Amy's story, I didn't have any kind of plan or outline. I just started writing and things happened.

This is one thing I love about writing. Sometimes the piece takes on a life of its own. I still don't know what's going to happen. But I'll continue to write.