i have been starting this post over and over for the last fifteen
minutes or so. nothing i write seems to
convey what i want to say. i feel, at times,
that there will never be a way past this.
this isn't the first time i have sat down to write about that night. but nothing ever comes out (at least not anything i'm
satisfied with). it feels like it was
yesterday in all the wrong ways but i'm missing most of the details; everything
is out of order and blurry.
this is the first instance in my life when it has been easier
for me to talk about my feelings out loud than to put them onto paper. i do not remember ever fluctuating so much
between trying to express and repress.
this one memory has defined my relationship with writing (and everything
else) for over five years. this is my
everest. i know the experience will
leave me bloody and bruised so i have been using my favorite coping mechanism…avoidance.
however, keeping myself from writing means denying much more
than expression. i tend to process by writing,
reading and editing words on a page in an attempt to perfectly articulate my
experiences. so if i'm not writing i'm
not probably not dealing with it at all.
in my head writing about it will make it real. at this very moment i am terrified to dig
into the depths of my memory making a mess of things.
five years is a long time to keep something inside. i feel like you can see it written on my
face. there is a visible difference in
my appearance; i am rigid and stiff, my skin is pale and thin, there is no
twinkle in my eye. i may as well be
wearing a billboard, although most people probably wouldn't notice the
difference - or maybe they can't be bothered to, i'm not sure which anymore. needless to say, there have been very few
people who have actually commented on my somewhat apparent transition.
here i am sitting in front of the screen staring, reading,
and editing. a another half hour has passed and i have written four paragraphs
containing 323 words. not one says
anything about my intended topic. (fuck!)
