Writing is something I have done since my mother died. It was my way to cope, to express myself and be vulnerable and honest to something without burdening anyone else.

I keep a journal where I write down significant events in my life, my feelings, and what I’m going through at the time. Writing helps me process what I’m feeling and why I’m feeling it. It’s a vent session on paper and allows me to slow down my thinking, assess what I’m really feeling, and find a solution.

With curtains of tears streaming down my face, I began pouring my heart out on the page. This is known in some circles as brain dumping, when everything rolling around inside your head is allowed out and you no longer are burdened with it.

I don’t claim this is a cure-all or a permanent fix. What is a cure, except for the cliché, time? But writing does help reduce the emotions of anxiety and sadness and the fear I was experiencing that day. It alleviated my pain, allowed my brain to work through the thoughts, and in turn, embraced the tension inside of me.

After writing, I realized why I was having a hard time that day (I read a Greek myth which brough back memories of our trip to Greece a few years ago). I realized what it really meant (I missed the man I had met, fallen in love with, and married, and I still couldn’t believe it was over). I realized that, as much as I wanted to make our marriage work, I couldn’t force him to love me. He had moved on quickly, with the woman he began seeing when we were still married, and that made me realize that I should be valued as a human being, and I deserve better than that.

These epiphanies could have been actualized in other ways, perhaps talking it out, going for a run, or meditating. But for me, writing has been my constant companion, one in which has never failed to be there, has never betrayed me, and is always there without a judging ear.