I want more for myself. Just typing that, thinking it, feeling it is has drawn out emotions I have ignored in favor of apathy if not to protect myself from the world than to protect myself from the truth of the reality my actions and inactions created. I gave up and hated myself for it, I was scared and ashamed of it. I yearned and was overwhelmed by it, I was alone and felt the weight of solitude. I was isolated and felt the warmth and safety of that seclusion. I broke and the worst thing is that I don’t know when. I did not see it happen. It was like the knowledge hid itself behind all my other fears. Like it was sentient and froze me in order to assault me. I was stuck in place, and in the depth, the very bottom of my despair, I knew I was stuck but in the leaden fog I was unaware.
It was in the stillness of the dark that I could pretend. And it was in the lightness of day that I knew who I was. I chose to live in the dark, unmoved, alone, and unraveled.
I am moving for the first time in a long time. My muscles feel stiff, my mind stifled, my heart atrophied but yet I move. I blinked and was surrounded by a life I did not recognize and that I never wanted for myself. I blinked and was someone I hated, I was living in a shadow world for years. I don’t know this person I have become. The stranger in my body, that stole my life, left me with habits I cannot break, fears I am unable to overcome, goals and dreams too far away to reach. How do I move past this? I am mourning the person I used to be but I am mostly mourning the person I could have become. It all feels too late.
I used to write. Since childhood the only thing that gave me more joy then reading a story was writing one. I used to give them as gifts, fill diaries, journals, and left over spiral notebooks with words and lives and dreams. I used to be optimistic and connected to others in a way I have lately only been able to connect to characters. I used to be scared but I also used to be brave. I want this past tense me to infiltrate this present tense me. I want to be a me I want to be.
Lately, what I write is anger, and fear, and plans unfulfilled, words underlined with changes I never made, improvements I was not ready for. The only time I have been writing is when I feel words screaming, things, feelings and emotions, I need to exorcize. And then I filter and edit and agonize and change and the words no longer scream, but are not freed either, just subdued. I want to write for fun, I miss the stories, the ones that whisper quietly while I clean, or dramatize a conversation I am having, or the world I created when trying to fall asleep as a child. I miss wanting to share them and I miss having something to share. Even the idea of having a piece of that excites me in manner I am no longer used to, and I wish I were used to it.
To be a writer you have to write. So, in hopes of gathering and combining all the little pieces of me, scattered between memories and wants, depressive episodes, bad habits, and body invaders into a semblance of a functioning human adult that somewhat reflects the person I wanted to be and values I used to have, I will write. Everyday. I don’t know about what yet. Rediscovering old interest in some manner I hope. Maybe I’ll do something I’m afraid of and find my bravery again. I can read a good book and share an opinion, or write a poem, find a passion, quick writes, prompted writing, and especially write stories about the worlds I have been living in for so long. But I will write.
This is day one of a 365 day journey. And it’s thrilling. And maybe by the end of it I will be someone I recognize again. Wish me luck! Talk to you tomorrow?