My mind is chaos as I struggle to finish one thought before moving to the next. Writing is difficult, and all else a chore. Work nights have been wasted on useless things, when there is much to be done. There are clothes to be washed, books to be read and an abundance to learn.

Here at the Owl Diary I spend most of the time writing about myself. For many reasons I despise  this. And I'm fully aware of the need to limit the word "I." But not tonight as I question how to define myself, or even the littlest bit of me. I often wonder if the words I string together are an accurate portrayl of who I  am.

I've heard that many study psychology because they desperately wish to comprehend their own problems. And perhaps somewhere along the way, they can help those with similar experiences.

Maybe that's why I write. I've always been a thinker. And I feel the thoughts in my head make up so much of who I am. I go mad trying to write it all down, believing it makes a difference. Maybe it doesn't, but there's the hope that it does. Or that one day it will. It's my attempt to construe the messy bits, piecing them together so as to make sense of why I am the way I am. Hoping to condense everything into simple words.

The habit started when I was thirteen, as one event started a domino effect that lasted through my teenage years. I wrestled with things outside of my control, constantly changing from sad to happy to angry to confused to numb and all emotional sorts. I wrote everything down, attempting to make sense of the world around me.

Documenting thought means things are real- that life and people matter. And when I can't get it down in the form of messy penmanship, my mind hangs on to it all.

Recently I've been asked about myself. And I'm realizing how difficult it is to openly talk about the things usually kept in word documents or tattered Moleskines. I hate impersonal responses and only touching the surface of who we are. I want to know it all. About me, about everyone. But I've convinced myself that others are not the same. They don't care about your soul. So I keep it concealed, sporatically showing bits in my writing.

Which leads me to my mind tonight, dealing with the lies I tell myself. Wondering if they're lies at all. And with that, all emotion creeps to my chest as I pause to let one hopeful thought calm my mind.

These demons don't matter. I am enough. And He who knit me in the womb casts out the biggest lie I know: I'm am not worthy of love.

He has made me worthy. Tapping the keys, negativity released, God seeps in and whispers His love. Reminding me that the world is beautiful after all. β˜…

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