One of the nice things about blogging, one of my prime defenses of it, you might say, is the catharsis that comes from writing about things. Putting your thoughts or feelings down, particularly when things are careening around my brain.
If you ever read Stephen King's "Firestarter," you are familiar with the concept of "Ricochet." In the book, Andy McGee, who participated in secret government drug tests in the 1960's, has the ability to "push" people into saying or doing things. The talent is referred to as "mental domination." There is a danger, though, that someone who has been "pushed" can develop a "ricochet," in which long-buried trauma, obsessions, or secrets emerge and begin careening around the person's brain until the person goes insane or worse.
I can relate.
I am a worrier. When something bad happens to me, or to someone I know, I get upset about it. I worry about it. I get physically sick over it. It goes, around and around in my brain, until I would do just about anything to forget about it. Of course, over time it lessens, and eventually goes away. It usually stays away, too, unless an almost identical problem pops up again.
One of the ways I cope with this is to write wordy, sometimes scathing blog entries in which I detail every single thing I could say if I was allowed to. Then I delete the entry, so I can't go back over and obsess over it. The ricochet now quieted, I can go back to my life.
Unfortunately, that is no longer working; the past two weeks have been that hard. (Nothing huge, but just a lot of things happening at once.) I'm feeling the need now to talk to an actual human being, an urge I almost never have. Someone who will listen to me, provide some feedback about what is reasonable and what isn't, and give dispassionate, sensible advice with just a hint of caring.
Oprah, here I come.
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