I will gladly be the first to admit using writing as a coping mechanism. If anxiety gets to me, typically about bigger-picture problems or things outside my locust of control, I’ll pull up a draft of what I’m working on, in order to keep from spiraling. I also use the gym daily for the same purpose. Ever since a stressful event snapped me out of the past thirty-five years, I needed some way to finally take care of myself. So I started working out weekdays for free after work. Six months later I bought a gym membership (for the third time in a decade). But, somehow, unlike the other failed attempts, I’ve stuck with it now for over a year, averaging six days a week.
I’m still far from my goals, and they grow every day. When I started, I wanted to not feel fat and not have a gut that hung over my belt. Bu the change has been more than just physical. I care about myself more. I’m calmer, a bit more humble and confidant at the same time. I’m also far less self-destructive, can’t afford the down time and ache in the muscles. Maybe it’s more of a hermit life, but at least I have goals I can work towards again.
Little bit of pride there.
Under 119,000 words, which is great. Every little bit I can chip away makes the narrative clearer. Keep chipping, keep chopping. Whether it’s words or weight, just keep chopping at it. Soon that tree will fall and you’ll find yourself in a wonderful new forest.
Because, sometimes, don’t we need to get a little lost in the woods?
Maybe Robert Frost had it right and wrong on that snowy evening.