comfort

I am a try-er. I try things. I rarely have reservations on new things. Sometimes it’s hard to tell where my zones end and where they begin because of this. I tried a therapeutic writing class. Trying the class wasn’t the step. Just another thing to try. But putting my emotion into the writing was not in my comfort zone.

Talking about my past without joking was foreign to me. Saying things, realizing thoughts from my brain; Putting them into the circle for people to see, hear, and making opinions about. Sounds like a comfort “no”. The memories, the truths, the secrets; all floating there. Naked and exposed. Realizing the grip on things I held on to so hard