This is hard for me to post,I didn’t plan on ever sharing. I am not a writer, I have never enjoyed writing but one night last year I couldn’t sleep(very rare for me) I wrote this ‘poem’. I’m not sure if I can call it a poem as I don’t know much about writing. I wrote about comparing my intrusive thoughts to pieces of paper, and how my brain processes them as if I were a recycling room. The perfectionist in me wants to this piece, but I’m not going to. Here is a first(a mostly likely the only time I’ll revisit this) draft:
All my happy thoughts and memories are stored neatly in categories in my brain, in a filing system. There is a little wicker basket placed on top of the filing system, full of all the stressful thoughts, that can’t be filed in the system. My brain doesn’t function stress, so the stressful basket of thoughts gets put into the recycling room, with all the other bad thoughts. So there isn’t a wicker basket at all.
Inside the recycling room, the metaphorical fan is left on, all the bad thoughts are flying around the room, in a mess. The days where my brain is stuck in the recycling room, it’s like my brain is full of negative thoughts that repeat repeat repeat as they fly around. There’s no organisation, just messy thoughts. You try and get in control of one thought of paper, when the next flies in front, before you’ve had time to hold onto the first. So you’re still left with racing negative thoughts all day. Being inside the recycling room nothing is achieved, just left down, hopeless and unproductive.
Days when I’m in the filing system are good, it’s in my comfort zone. My thoughts are structured and calm. This sounds perfect. Yet it means I can’t deal with any new things, and the stressful things never get done. Which leaves me being punished for not doing things, like eat and do homework.
I can’t find a way in-between these mind sets. My brain can’t process. I don’t know what to do in this paper room.