processing

Hello out there, you—whoever you are. Welcome to this post. You are welcome here.

I want to write out a blog post today because it is cold and rainy outside, and it is early November. Ideal writing conditions. The fact that I’m also listening to an 8D dreamscape oldies train journey ASMR video means I really have no choice but to blog today.

Earlier this season, I received some life-changing news—the details of which I am not ready to reveal to the Internet, but which have nevertheless had a drastic effect on my daily life. I have since logged off my Instagram and Twitter to aid in my ability to process this news. Having been off these platforms for a month now, I am beginning to understand their impact on my thoughts, opinions, and self-perception. My mind feels more spacious, but the desire to express myself has not gone away.

I’m someone who loves to acquire information. I do this hungrily throughout the day, often at the expense of my emotional self, who simply can’t keep up with the speed at which my brain processes thoughts. And so I become the little rainbow wheel that spins when a Mac can’t load an application quickly. Spinning but static.

I’m also someone who loves to share information. To express my thoughts, opinions, and the way I perceive myself in relation to things. Naturally, a tension builds between this simultaneous desire for input and output. Returning to the physicality of my body, and of wordless things in the physical world, is what I’m finding helps relieve this mental tension. It’s a shift in energy that equates to less input and output overall. A shift where energy gets funneled from thinking and expressing to being and doing.

All this is to say, I am working on processing. Recalibrating thought loops. What does this look like physically? Keeping my hands busy with embroidery. Listening to my monthly playlist while I walk. Diffusing cinnamon and ginger essential oils while I work. Wearing my masculine outfits because that’s what makes me feel good and calm. Writing by way of feeling my fingertips on the keys of my keyboard, the nib of my pen against the page.

Tell me: how do you process things? Do you write? Do you scream? Do you sit beneath the widening sky and ask “why me?”