Writing from my own experiences. If you're anything like me, the road you're traveling isn't paved with sunshine and lollipops all day long. Life is a journey of movement. If we are among the living or want to be among those who live fully we must daily choose which way we are to move.

I am learning to slow down, and take myself into account more often. When I consider myself in the equation of my life, I notice how I can work myself into total oblivion, as I get myself absorbed deeply into other people's lives.

Writing Matters.  If it were not for my incredible love for writing, I might have already called it quits! 'Life that is'. I have been writing since a child and have always felt so close to the written word. I know how powerful writing can be. I recall a time when I wrote a letter to a family member describing to them, how they were affecting me, in great detail I wrote out exactly what I could not speak. I stood waiting for a response. I had no idea, how powerful my words were. Until the pounding of the fist, hit the counter, in disapproval and downright disgust at my written words. So powerful in fact that I never wrote again to share with anyone my personal feelings, until recent years. I still can see and feel the pounding of that fist. The rage I witnessed in that moment, elicited my silence to the subject of alcoholism and its effects on the family.  I think I was maybe 12 or 13 at the time -my memories sometimes are a tad bit mixed up still; when I try to recall some of my childhood. 

I loved writing, I spent many moments, sitting on the edge of my bed writing my heart out in hopes that someone would here me and feel my pain. I didn't share written words with anyone' my journal held my deepest thoughts, and feelings, in those pages I didn't care what I wrote. I simply wrote. Emptying  myself of the heart ache, the pain I witnessed  and sometimes the rage I felt myself; as I often felt so helpless and far from any real help. 

Writing is my refuge. My, hope. The way out of the darkest night. When yelling and screaming filled the air with  horrific sounds I would sometimes write myself to sleep. Writing is a cure for the soul who longs to be heard.

Writing matters, to the soul who has no voice. Writing matters when the tongue is mute. Writing matters when the heart wants to heal. Writing matters most of all.

Internal dialogue speaks in the silent moments, spinning of words, winding themselves tightly around people, places and things.  No one is saved from this naturally occurring conversation that is often fed when life becomes unbalanced. I notice quite often how the spinning thoughts, words, images, and all manner of dialogue attempt to capture me, when I am tired or overwhelmed. Learning to calm the chatter, will take one through changes that at first will feel like torture until the connections, or rewiring takes place within the brain. 

Internal dialogue looks different when I am feeling well as apposed to not feeling well. 'Have I had enough rest? Did I eat enough food? Do I allow the world around me to dictate itself all over me, while I remain Silent'. There are a great many reasons why our inner dialogue can spiral out of control.   Learning to listen, learning to honor the inner voice is a process that over time gets easier the more I am heard.