I just in this very moment remembered it’s my day to blog.

I am so forgetful, it’s a wonder I have clothes on.

Today I am going to talk about why writing keeps me alive.

One day I started bawling at church. I was single at the time, the lesson in the class was pushing all my emotional buttons and in the middle of the discussion, I made a comment, my voice wobbled and then I lost it.

I walked out. With everyone watching.

I didn’t want to go home because I lived with my three best friends who were going to ask me questions and try to comfort me and maybe make me express myself to them. So I got in my car and I drove to school where I was a graduate student. I went down to the computer station, sat on hard chair and then really really bawled my face off.

Once that was out of my system, I stared at the computer.

And then I started writing.

I didn’t write anything pretty. I didn’t write anything deep. I didn’t write anything worth saving. But I did write and write and write and write and write. And you know what, I felt better. And I figured a couple things out.

After a couple hours of that along with more crying and laying on the floor staring at the ceiling, I felt like I was ready to face the world. Or at least, talk to someone out loud.

I went home.

They were waiting.

They had called my sister.

“Where do you think she is?” they’d asked her.

She said, “she probably somewhere writing an essay.”

At first that made me mad because that was EXACTLY what I was doing though I wouldn’t call it an essay. But then I realized, if writing helps me cope with my emotions and helps me work things out and allows me to not start smoking or drinking, then writing was the best thing that every happened to me whether I ever got published or not.

I hold onto that.