I finally got some of my thoughts down on paper yesterday. I couldn't do it on the computer; the cursor flashes too impatiently, distracting and insulting at the same time. Not exactly conducive to vulnerability. I needed actual paper -- something that I could hold, and that I could drop tears on if necessary, and that I could crumple up and throw away if it did not please me. A pen is quiet, and polite. It will let you rest in between ideas, and never admit whether it thinks any less of you for it.
I had to do some digging, to get to the root of the problems I'm facing at the moment. Why the things that are throwing me off are throwing me in such varied and unexpected directions. The roots go wide, but not deep, so I have hope. I've been talking all week to anyone who will listen, but I am tactile and visual above all, and it helps me to better navigate when I can see my thoughts and fears written down, mapping my ephemeral geography, untidy but defined.