Catharsis (SP?)

I write this and I want it to make me feel better. I want to spill out my pain in ink and expect my soul to hurt less. Perhaps if I weren't a drama queen, like the world is "intensely felt prose," written just for me. Perhaps if I could for one day, for one hour "love the questions themselves." Perhaps if I could accept what I have with out worrying about what I don't have. "We've got tonight, who needs tomorrow." Then what? Then I wouldn't be this spastic, emotional girl who wears her heart on her sleeve, but can't explain it. I wouldn't be me. Yet I do not justify my obsessive affliction of worry. It is part of me, a part of me that probably will never go away, like alcoholism never leaves its afflicted, but the alcoholic does not have to remain a drunk. We must just work harder at avoiding what comes so easily to us. For years God has been teaching me that I worry, rely on myself, and find comfort in many things beside him first. Thank God, my lessons have always had other rewards: friendships, knowledge, experience, strength. If the reward is given in correlation to the lesson, I'm due for something great -- now or later.