I want to tell people things when I write. I want to tell people how I feel, or how I wish I could have felt during a time when feelings were mixed up. As long as I can remember, I have never been very good at just saying things, with real words, from my mouth. I’ve always written it down a bunch of times, read over it and over it again wondering why I couldn’t just say it out loud. There is always this pressure in my brain when I’m trying to say it out loud and then when a train of thought is broken in the midst of saying it out loud I forget my purpose and emotion takes over.
I used to be a very emotional girl. The words trapped inside that I wanted to say festered inside of me and made me crazy. Crying in my room under blankets and pillows trying to understand why I couldn’t just say the words that I wanted to say. Paralaized by the inability to expose myself verbally to people I thought I felt closest to. Hearing the words “what’s wrong with you” from sigificant others is a torture that I can not overcome in dark times. I could not explain to them why it is so hard for me.
Words can hurt people, they can make people feel good. They can cause hate and love so quickly and so easily, or cause the craziest reactions.
It is easy to blame the others for my lack of ability to speak up. “He never listens to me”, “He doesn’t understand”, “They will get so angry,” “He will make me cry”. But I don’t wish to blame anyone else. This is how my brain works. I’ve been writing notes and hidind being a paper and pen or blog or lengthy texts my whole life. I once wrote a letter to my parents as a small child about failing a test and forging my moms signature so they would never find out. An apology. That I was too afraid to say out loud. Too afraid to make another mistake. Too afraid that they wouldn’t listen, or that I would be misunderstood. They yelled at me for writing that note instead of talking. And so goes the rest of my life.
I wrote notes throughout highschool, to my best friends, to the boy I had a crush on, to my enemies (they would never see them). Sometimes I would pass them along, other times I just kept the letters in a book for my eyes only. Some how it helped get it all out on paper and let it go. Writing it released me from the pressure I felt. And it seemed to work.
But I am a 25 year old woman now, who still cannot talk to the people I love about anything that relates to my feelings. I’m still a scared little girl trapped in my head. But I am far less emotional and I know that I can get over things easily. I move on almost too easily for some people to handle, which hurts me.. But I get over it. I write it down. Read it and read it again until I’m convinced to share it or hide it.
I’ve loved a bunch of people. I’ve tried to open up to these people about the tough feelings that grow during our time together, but it still gets hard for me to handle. I don’t think the feelings are that important. While some have not even questioned, others have asked heavy questions, digging for the answers to things I would normally push out of my head and avoid feeling anything. The lack of interest in my feelings is almost as stressful as the need to know how I feel. Even if I have trained myself to feel nothing, I have to come up with an answer. The answers are always a thought process, one that needs to be on paper; thought out, lengthy rant of feelings.
I’m still writing down my feelings, my thoughts and strong words regardless if the people I write to find it childish or weak. I’ve been told to grow some balls, use my big girl voice. But I’m not that person. I am a depressed, anxious and sometimes mentally unstable person in reality. But somehow I get by without medication, without the help from another and without tearing myself up about it everyday. So to you I may appear pretty normal at this stage in my life, but I wasn’t always like this. I wasn’t aware of all of my faults and troubles until I wrote them down and read them over and over again. So maybe this has become my medicine, my friend when I need one the most and my way of getting through my troubled mind.
Noone listens to me like a pen and paper does. And noone understands me quite like I understand me.
So if I’ve ever written you a letter, a poem, a lengthy text of ramblings, you should feel flattered that I felt so much I wanted to share. If you could read the things I do not share, you would know much more. Please don’t give me a hard time for sharing feeling through paper. It is just my way of reaching out to you in the only way my mind will allow most days.
I’m not like you, and you aren’t like me. We are all different, and I need to write to be me. To be open and free in my mind. If I am to be judged by my inability to say things out loud, then so be it. I’ll write it down and then I will forget about it.
That’s all I wanted to write today. There was something creeping up on me when I woke up this morning. Time to stop dwelling on the past and reach out to the future. We are all alone. But I have this keyboard, pen and paper and myself. So I’m doing alright.
Blogging>Talking 