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I don't understand why I only have something to write about when I'm hurting. And yes, of course I'm glad that I'm not hurting, but I'm not glad that I'm not writing. Why can't I write about the good stuff also?

What about the day I walked back to work with Stefania and told her all about the pink otter pop? I told her all about it and how my life is so wonderful right now. Because it is. Think about the life I have. I'm happy. I have a good job. I have great friends. I'm in a relatively healthy and happy relationship. I'm totally busy. I'm respected in work and life. People come to me with their problems and trust me enough to talk to me about their feelings and fears and life.

But it's so much easier for me to write about the hard time. When I did tell Stefania all about the pink popsicle, I compared it to early times in my life when rather than my middle, constant state being so content that merely having a pink popsicle can put a huge smile on my face, my middle, canstant state was of constant tears. I didn't look for excuses to smile, but sought out space to cry and not be judged for it.

My fingers have tensed slightly and my mind is racing with how to describe the cold air hitting the tears and watching the boys run and jump and I ran and I cried...

Why the sadness?

I guess I know that the sadness comes out it in writing because I don't know where else to put it. I don't know how to talk about it or bring it up or feel it. I hide it away and then when it's in me and occuring, I write it out to make it real and to make it go away.

I have to go eat lunch now so I'm ready for my afternoon meetings, but I'll make a conscious effort to keep writing. Not like anyone reads this. Just that I want to be able to know that my identity as writer is intact. To me.