Last semester, I had a memoir writing class that was the best form of therapy I ever had. We spent forty minutes in a dark room, eyes closed, on yoga mats on the floor with steady breathing while my professor walked us through meditation. On a rare occasion, we went outside before the weather got bad. We were writing memoirs, going back into our pasts. I had a few anxiety attacks during the process, but at the end of the semester, handing in a thirty page work of, what I believe to be art, was incredibly fulfilling, relieving, satisfying, and it’s something I miss doing.
I got back into writing in that manner today during class, so I can only hope that I get a lot off my mind again. I’d love to share it, but it’s way too personal at this point.
