Someone once asked my why I write.  Why do I blog?  Why do I submit things to websites that aren’t going to pay me?  Why do I follow along this tortuous path that is the ecstasy and misery of being a writer?  A writer for no money, no less?

Why Do You Blog?

I write because I don’t know how else to process my world. Maybe I lack coping skills.  Maybe some of the things I have been through, that I have buried so deep inside me that they never see light, have stunted my ability to process my life in the moment.  I find that the reason I write is the same reason I am so good at work in emergency medicine.  In the moment, in the second of panic, as the shit hits the fan, the animal codes, the world begins to crumble, I feel nothing.

I am not unfeeling, I simply switch off.  I do what needs to be done in a logical and methodical manner.  I do what I must with not a moment of panic.  It isn’t until after, sometimes hours, sometimes days, that I feel the immense stress and pressure.

When I was in school, I had a seriously important surgery practicum during which I was not only going to be running anesthesia and assisting in surgery for the first time, but I would have two surgeries instead of the standard one.  I didn’t lose a wink of sleep.  I didn’t have single nightmare of showing up naked.  I studied for the oral inquisition I would be subject to and I practiced the practical skills at home on fake legs and pillows.  I passed with flying colors, nailed every skill on the first try, and went home and slept like a log.

Four days later, I began having terrible nightmares about failing, showing up late, being asked to do things that I didn’t know how to do because they were beyond my scope of practice… you get the idea.

It was a delayed reaction to the normal pressure that people feel.  It was a sudden manifestation of what I was incapable of feeling in the moment.

I write because sometimes things are festering in my gut and I can’t quite figure out why.

Maybe I write because I’m damaged.  There are secrets I keep, lies I have to tell, situations I have never truly faced, and maybe those secrets have stunted me.

Or maybe I have the very best coping mechanism of them all: The ability to turn it all off and choose when to deal with it later, via my writing.