I don’t know where to start. I never do. Trying to work through my feelings and organise the chaos of my thoughts has never been my strong point. So I write. I ramble. When I can’t pick out a train of thought to run with, I pick up my notebook and scribble my way through it. I try to stop hiding from the whirlpool of emotion and let the words out.
Sometimes things start to make sense, and sometimes they don’t. But any attempt to work through the ink blot pages in my head leads to some kind of progress. Even if that progress is simply the knowledge that I tried.