Sometimes I look back on what I wrote previously; even on things that are difficult to read, still. I started writing in this at the recommendation of a Tauren priest, the only individual to have even a remote idea of things going through my mind. She said it would be therapeutic and that putting my thoughts down would help me organize them as well as come to terms with them and with my personal history. And my feelings. I believe I am repeating myself from writing before but they are my thoughts.
I started writing almost flippantly. I now think it was because I did not take her seriously, did not believe a rather minor act would really, truly help. Maybe it's different for someone who is a writer or artist or musician or some such but I could not understand how words and thoughts would feel any differently on paper as they did in my mind. So I started writing with the notion of perhaps changing, or at least making light of, my thoughts and experiences. It seemed to make sense at the time-- if I wrote things with the edges dulled they would not hurt as much and maybe I could convince myself of that so that they would loosen their hold. That I would not be as helpless
in reality as I had felt then. Helpless and terrified. I despise those traits when they start to nudge back into my mind, and I do not-- did not-- want to think about them defining me before. So I tried to gloss over it somewhat.
I realized that was a mistaken approach, though. It did not make me feel better to try and fog the past a touch, and I started writing as I remembered. As plainly as I could. I do not understand why, but it truly does seem to help. There is a long way to go, but I feel like perhaps there is a light at the end of the path. And I still intend on showing these to my brother. I do not know when, whether I will wait until I have written through the time he helped me or shove the journal at him when I see him next, but I will. I do not even know what I will accomplish in doing so. I wonder if it would only make him feel awkward; but he did know some of what happened, else he would not have stepped in.
Even now I do not know how I feel about that. Grateful, yes; I do not think I could have escaped before losing my mind. Beneath it all, though, there is a strange feeling of something…I would not say resentment, but that is close. No resentment for Chesric, but toward myself. For being in that situation and being unable to get myself out. For being too afraid. I needed my brother and though I do love him, I hated needing someone. It meant weakness, and did I not kill Pryderi because he had been weak? What does that mean for me?
I tried drawing myself. I used to draw and paint; I was never an artist, but I had proper lessons as a young lady in ladylike things such as watercolors and music. I have a good singing voice but I have no reason to sing, so that has been dormant. But I tried to draw, to exercise my very limited skill, and what was to have been a self portrait somehow turned into a picture of Ches. We do look like each other, at least, though I would say he is more handsome than I am pretty. Or perhaps the qualities that make him above average are what make me average. I am not delicate, even if I am shorter than some. My weapon training and metalworking ensured that, even if before then-- even when wasting away in the dark-- I was not so dainty of build.
It has been so long since I've tried drawing something living, instead of sketching out armor plans. A child could do better. But it is something, and perhaps with practice… (A sketch is at the bottom of the page
((OOC: I tried sketching Lucy. It ended up looking too masculine. And I was too lazy to color or even clean it up and refine it. :) ))