Writing is an interesting thing. Like any form of art, each person who sees it brings with them a unique experience and understanding, each takes away something unique as well. It doesn’t matter what the original intent of the artist was, what piece of thought or wisdom she tries to share, each of us will find something different which will stay with us even when it was never even considered. Of all the millions, indeed trillions, of words which have ever been written, the vision they share is, by their very nature, a very personal thing. I sometimes know what I hope to share, sometimes I am as confused as a child, lost in the flow of thought and emotion. I have been told what I write here is important, that my words have meaning and purpose. Maybe this is true, I do not know. I have never had an opportunity to speak directly with anyone who reads this blog, though maybe one day I will. Maybe, one day, I will have a chance to look into the eyes of someone who has read these things and had felt an impact, no matter how small, on their lives. Maybe I will die without ever experiencing such a moment. Either way, I will have spoken. My voice, as small as it may be, has been heard. As a writer, I can ask for nothing more.
I tell you these things because I’m not sure how what I type next is going to be taken by anyone who may take the time to read this post. It may be you will see here a pattern, an ongoing cycle which has dominated this blog from the beginning. Maybe you will read this and, taking a moment, look at the pictures I have posted and see the woman sitting at her computer, typing away with determination. Maybe, like me, you see nothing but your reflection in the glass… a reflection which cannot bring the reality into alignment with the dream.
You see, over the last few days I have lost something, some small faith in myself.
A recurring theme here is my uncertainty I am expressing myself correctly. As I said, each of us bring to this conversation our own unique experiences and thus a unique way of seeing things, even those things which to one might seem as black and white as words on a page. This is as true now as it has ever been.
I am at a loss to explain how I have been feeling, this combination of doubt and stomach churning fear. These emotions which send shock waves of ice through me from head to toe. To be sitting here and almost being physically ill.
There are things I have not shared here, things I thought too private, things which could out me if the wrong person read it, things I just didn’t have the words to explain. Some of these have been frustrations, some fears, some have been simple opinions. Some though, have been my deepest thoughts, my darkest fears. Those things I just don’t have a way of expressing, not to you, not to A, and not even to myself. They are shapeless blots of darkness, unformed and ethereal, yet all too real none the less.
One example is something I have tried, and failed to explain properly to those who know me personally. It is my appearance. What you see in my pictures is not how I present on a day to day basis. In fact, if you knew me years ago, I look much the same. It is rare for me to even wear a wig, I never wear makeup except for special occasions and as for how I dress… Well, it is pretty much jeans and sweatshirts or T-shirts depending on the weather. I have had it pointed out, time and again, this is nothing. After all, many women dress the same. Many don’t wear makeup and they are right. What I haven’t made clear is the difference this has for me, how doing the same now as I did before has a deeper meaning for me personally. How putting on the same clothes now as I did in years past, how having my hair the same, how going about my day being seen as I have always been is crushing me, little by little, more each day.
I have tried to explain how it isn’t the clothing its self, but what they represent. It isn’t my hair style, but how I see myself. None of this is something most people even think about. Most people don’t see an old, favorite shirt and have it bring them doubts and fears because it represents someone they no longer associate with who they are now. They don’t pick up a pair of pants and see in it a lifetime of self denial and pain. I do.
I have lost count of how many times I have been told I think of and worry about stuff no one else even notices. That I make too much of things, that what consumes my mind has no importance. If I were like those around me I would say they were right. But I’m not. For me, the things I handle in everyday life, the things I do, the things I see, they all have stings attached. They all have a deeper meaning. So much of the day to day is a constant reminder of what was, what can no longer be, at least not in my heart. They are relics of a by gone age. Yet I cannot cast them aside. They have a reason and purpose in my life still, and will do so for the foreseeable future. I hate them, yet I need them. I despise them, yet I use them, not because I want to but because I need to.
Day after day after day, I am hammered by a past I cannot hope to escape. I am weighed down by the reminders of who I was, who I am still expected to be.
All of this things, big and small, noticed or not, are another strand in a web I cannot break.
So there comes times like these. When I sit alone and feel the unrelenting weight of a life I can no longer embrace. Knowing there is nothing I can do at the moment to change the course I am on, only able to hope for a future time when things will change.
But hope can sustain a person for only so long before they stumble and fall. Before the weight they carry becomes too much and they are left wondering if it is worth all of the pain and effort. If it wouldn’t be easier to just give up, to surrender the fight and return to a life which, while difficult and painful in its own right, is an easier path than the one you are currently on.
Given enough time, even a mountain can be reduced to a pile of sand.
That is what I face. A never ending assault by an ocean of expectations. Wave after wave, storm after storm. At some point something is going to break and I fear it will be me.