There are times when I wish it was easier to express emotions through writing. I know of course this is something which is done every day… great writers seem to invoke a powerful response with just a few well chosen words, but I am not one of them. There are times such as this when I struggle to find the words to express even the smallest part of what I am feeling.
I have spoken of reaching a “low” point. Clearly this does little to express the depth of my thoughts and emotions during some points in my day to day efforts to deal with with things. Maybe I am deliberately glossing over things, trying to make light of what is really something more serious than I am willing to admit even to myself. Then again, there are times I simply don’t want to burden others with my problems. I seem to cause enough problems without deliberately adding to them.
But this once, I would like to try and share some of my thoughts, some of these emotions that have me here, typing all of these words while there are tears in my eyes and an ache in my heart, because, maybe, just maybe, there is someone else who is feeling the same, having the same thoughts, who could use knowing they are not alone in this moment.
I was luck enough to have someone to talk to last night when this was hardest to deal with alone. A friend who was willing to lend me an ear to listen, an arm to lean on when I needed it more than I wanted to admit. I know not everyone has someone like that and I cannot tell you how thankful I am that I do,
More and more, as the days have passed, I have found my thoughts turning to what it would mean to be able to live openly. To be able to go about my day, doing the most mundane of things as myself, being accepted… or just ignored. To walk down the street, to go shopping, to just sitting at the computer without thought of hiding. To be able to simply breath without thinking. It isn’t about “passing” because such things simply don’t matter any more.
Last night these thoughts suddenly flared into facing a fear I have managed to sidestep to this point, to down play because I wanted to convince myself it didn’t matter. But it does.
I realized I was afraid of dying without having lived as myself. Of having who I was truly was for ever lost behind a name carved on a piece of rock that wasn’t “my” name. Who would look at it an know the truth it concealed? Who would remember the woman I was?
I don’t know how to explain what I feel when faced with this possibility. The understanding that one simple twist of fate could erase me in a blink.
There has been so much discussion, so much anger and argument over the issue of “privilege”. So many harsh words exchanged over nothing more than words. Pointless puffs of air no one will remember. Well, this is what privilege looks like… It is knowing if you die, it will be your name on a piece of rock. Your name in the paper. Your name people will remember and speak of. It will be you people think of with love, with fondness, with anger and spite. It will be you as expressed by such a simple thing that will encompass a life lived.
I may never have that.