A wandering thought-bubble and writer’s block walked into a bar..

I’ve been suffering from a rather mild case of writer’s block lately. The last handful of posts I’ve shared, while heartfelt, were more forced than flowy. Yes, even the one about my favorite little five-year-old. I found myself wanting to write the last couple of months or so with a purpose at hand but when it comes time to take a seat, nothing comes out the way I envision it. I don’t know what that means. Writing has always been my outlet, even pre-blog. I’ve never been impressive off-the-cuff but I’ve always taken pride in what I can scrounge up if you give me a few minutes to breathe and organize my thoughts.

I’ve found that, over the years, my best writing comes from a place of pain and heavy-heartedness which, makes sense. I mean, even as a child, I’d put myself into a corner to write out my feels because I felt so broken from the child-size versions of Karen’s and Terry’s out there taunting a kid who desperately just wanted to disappear. I never even wanted to be seen in that way or to be one of the cool kids. I simply wanted people to be nice; something I thought everyone was born with, kindness. I found out that wasn’t really a thing and if it wasn’t possible, I wished people could just pretend I didn’t exist. I think I figured if I was invisible, it’d be easier than being ridiculed for looking so differently than the stereotype.

The thing is, I know I’ve come a long way since the days of summertime sadness. Of winter and fall and springtime sadness, too. While I may not be totally healed from the bummers of my childhood, I eventually figured out a way to overcome it and adopt a treat-everyone-with-kindness mentality, most of the time. But that, too, has gotten my heart into trouble.

The details aren’t nearly as important as the grief of realizing how mishandled your emotions were relationship after relationship, friendship after friendship. I learned how to show empathy and help people when they’re down but that only later put me in situations where I tried to fix people that were broken from their own unaddressed trauma. And the thing is, no one tells you that you can’t cure people that aren’t ready to travel down the yellow brick road of healing.

Those experiences taught me to keep my opinions to myself, they taught me to be quiet, they contributed to the diminishment of any self-esteem I bothered mustering up as a teen and young adult. I often found it hard to connect with girls; I still don’t know how to actually have a female friendship. Don’t come at me for this but woman are complicated. And mean.

I know it probably doesn’t make sense but all of this feels like some sort of twisted mind-fuck ripple effect.

Our parents start us out in this world with so much hope and joy for what their babies will grow up to be, maybe even how they’ll be. But so slowly, one small action causes another and another. The first weird look or hurtful thing turns into more than you can count on your fingers and toes. I’d rather have sticks and stones be thrown because contrary to the popular lies we’ve been told, words really do hurt. Pretty soon, those little babies are so self-aware and self-conscious of so many things that they don’t quite know what’s right and what’s not; what’s normal and what’s weird. When did all that happen? How?

Sometimes I wonder if parents-to-be ever think about the balance between protecting their children from the hate of society and allowing it to happen, because it will. Even the most sheltered of kids eventually are subjected to it.

Anyway, isn’t it weird? I often wonder if the reason I’m an perfectionistic constantly-observational overthinker with niche nerd pathways and anxiety-ridden tendencies is because of something that happened in 2nd grade. Or when I was 15. I wonder if I’ve always had the spirit of a vagabond and the mind of an organized spaz by nature, or by nurture. I wonder if I feel like I’ll be alone forever not because I’m not capable of loving but because I’m unbearable to be around. And why would that be? Is it because I gave too much of myself to other people throughout my time here on earth; like the wishes of a dandelion being blown in the wind?

The thing that really gets me though is while my best writing has always come from a place of hurt and I’m far more healed now in life than I ever have been in 31 years of millennial existence, I still experience all sorts of wounds in my wanna-be-tough-girl mind on a way-too-often basis. So why have I found it more difficult to write lately?

These wounds, they are more streamlined now though. Through a whole lotta faith and a little bit of therapy, I’ve had an opportunity to deal with some really crappy shit head-on. Which has been fulfilling to work through and overcome but where does that put me with the thing I enjoy most, writing?

I think I really just want to be heard. My whole life I’ve felt both seen and unseen at the same time. Seen for reasons I didn’t want to be and unseen because no one quite understands me. I figure if I spill my guts out to a white page somewhere on the internet, what? Someone, somewhere, will finally be like “girl, I get you.”

What a wild dream that’d be.

Sometimes.

Some days go by so fast that I’m not ready for them to be over. Some weeks I have more things to do, more plans, more people than I know what to do with. Sometimes I wonder when the last time I had a night or two of nothing to give myself a minute to breathe. Some nights I don’t even remember what it was like to be with someone because my days and nights and mornings are filled with pleasant distractions.

And then some nights.. I feel like I’m the only one in this world that is alone. The only one that doesn’t have a person. No one to turn to, no one to have lunch or dinner with, no one to go to an event with or to seek advice from. No one to share my successes or shortcomings with; or selflessly love me regardless of the comment that comes out of my mouth next. No one is there to send stupid memes to or literally chill while watching Netflix. No one is around to be on my side always, to love me forever, to know me better than I know myself, to get me the way I get them. I feel so much for so many people all of the time but I’m afraid no one in this world will ever feel ‘so much’ for me.

And if you’re asking, the answer is no, I don’t miss him anymore. Each month that passes, my eyes are more open to the red flags that lingered around far too long. But I do miss the companionship, the personal cheerleader, the presence of another human. I miss knowing that I could say and feel and act however I wanted and I wouldn’t be looked at the way a stranger would look at me. I wouldn’t be judged or questioned or ridiculed the way a friend or family member would judge or question or ridicule me. I miss knowing that I had a person. A non-perfect in nearly every way, but a person nonetheless.

The emptiness and void doesn’t seem to go away. Perhaps it’s masked by all the “stuff” I have going on in the spurts of too busy to think but when the slow times come; when nothing is happening and no one is around.. it hurts. All of it, everything.. hurts. The feeling of standing still while everyone else, everything else is moving on.. it’s so real and it feels as if there’s all this noise around but eerily silent at the same time.

Some days I say goodbye to everyone at work come 5:00 and don’t say another word until ‘good mornings’ 15 hours later. Some weeks I wish people would do what I wanted to do or say what I needed to hear instead of it always being the other way around. Sometimes my tears are too big and the room is too dark. Some nights I wonder if I’ll ever feel better.


About This Post: For so long I’ve been writing in a personal draft without publishing anything. It’s nearly 20 pages long. Full of ramblings and sadness; memories that are good, bouts of depression from both sides.. Moments I knew it should’ve been over, doubts I had never said aloud. From day one, I’ve had so much to say but didn’t dare say it thinking if I at least get it down and out, I’ll feel better. Similar to the concept of writing something down and burning it forever. It doesn’t work. I didn’t want to hurt anyone or damage anything by writing it out on a blog that I’m sure no one reads. But the more that time passes, the only person I’m damaging at this point by keeping all of it in, is myself. Thank you for reading. More to come, probably.