A psychologist would have a field day with me. I don't exaggerate when I say that, if every thought I had in any given day were typed in a document, we'd be talking about a forty page document. No “trying to make myself sound smarter” or “trying to impress da ladies wif my mega brane”, just me being me. Forty, fifty pages when it's bad. Rather than impart some level of intelligence to me, I find that it does the exact opposite. It is impossible to be very smart when you literally have thoughts coursing through your mental streets so quickly that a tenuous grasp is all you can manage with any one thought.
Puppies, duckies, dog food, food, pasta, wire, Chevelle, Monte Carlo, Monte Cristo, Count, Count Dracula, bats, bat(beep), crazy, looney, looney tunes, taz, devil, Satan, evil, Leah (really long story how those two connect), allergic, sick, barf, Leah, pretty, airhead, airmail, FedEx, UPS, USB, internet, email, mail, pony express, William Tell Overture, da duh dunt da duh dunt da duh dunt dunt dunt, Hi Yo Silver, gold, platinum, wood, game, dominoes, Little Ceaser's, Pizza-Pizza.
It's like that all day, and I have to force my mind into a lower gear so that my mind can keep up with itself. That sounds bipolar, but the kicker is that I have been depressed badly just twice in the past five years. I've been like a gerbil full of uppers for all but a few of my 29 years. I've been told there are prescription drugs to slow me down, but I'm afraid of ending up in a drug induced stupor like a Zombie. Wandering around with two coherent thoughts per week, one being food, the other being bed.
Writing is my counter-poison. Writing focuses me. It makes me semi-coherent. It allows me to express myself, while slowing me down. When I write, I can slow my mind down to a pace just faster than my normal typing speed between 90 and 125 words per minute. I can cope with two words per second in my head. I can't cope with two hundred thoughts per second, none of which make sense in or out of context.
I am a naturally nervous and hyper-worried person. I say hyper-worried because I don't know anyone who worries more than I do, and about the most mundane things. Today, I've sent a few PM's on this forum. With each, I've worried I may have screwed up and upset a new friend. I've made a number of posts, each left me worried that I had breached an unwritten rule, and upon refreshing the activity stream, would find myself locked out. I worry about everything, and mask my worry with humor. I am so glad to have a passable sense of humor, or I'd be awkward. That would worry me.
I cope by writing, by masking my fears both legitimate and imagined with humor. I write not because I have a passionate craving to do so, but because I am insane when I can't. A few months ago my laptop crashed, and being unable to write I was left to face my mind alone. I have hand deformity issues that mean that my penmanship is illegible. I have seventeen pages of a notebook that attests to the fact, because I can't even tell what I meant on any of those pages.
I write, not just because it is fun. I write, not just because it grows me as a human. I write, not just because I can take my vocabulary for a walk. I write, not just because I like the ego stroke when people respond positively.
I write, because I don't like me when I don't write!