Today I spent some time typing up old poems that had been published in literary magazines from colleges and universities I attended or where I worked. It was a strange feeling, revisiting these words and emotions of so long ago. In some ways, I felt as though they were written by someone else. I felt a little sad, thinking about the level of intensity I had about every single experience when I was young. I wondered if I’m sort of dead inside now? But I am much, much happier and content now than I was then. So. Then I started thinking about the mental health crisis in our world right now, or maybe just in the U.S. I know that at some points in my life I was super depressed, anxious, agitated, sad. I worked through these feelings by writing poetry. I didn’t know what I was doing, certainly wasn’t a great poet or anything, but arranging the words, polishing them, typing them up, and reading them aloud and silently again and again helped me through some rough times. I wonder if I would have done this so intensely if Tick Tock, Instagram, Twitter, or Facebook was calling? Somehow I doubt it. I am glad I had my writing to keep me sane when my pain and joy, all my experiences, were felt so intensely that they were almost unbearable.
