I like to write. Finding words allows me to have comfort in my own mind, lets me put things together that I struggle with. Tonight though, it feels different. I have this horrific sense of communicating without a shared conversation. I’ve come to terms with writing for myself, on many occasions when trying to find peace in my life. The idea of knowing how others might react to my words, has always given me a satisfaction in realizing that occasionally my words might help someone else find their own path without obstacles.
Tonight it is different, because even though I want to express my anxiety, my feelings, my insecurities, I’ve never felt more alone in my life. Every word I put here allows someone else to know I am alive and healthy. When that would usually be a good thing, for me tonight, it feels like an added weight because it means I can be left alone.
I’ve been in a battle with myself for many years, only to find relief in the friendships that have opened doors and allowed me to trust those closest to me. I have discovered how painful losing trust can be, how we have to redesign our own lives in order to survive. Sometimes we might rather not survive because of all of the stress and anguish we bring upon those we love and our own lives. I have not lived a perfect life, though, I can assure the reader, I have always tried to be genuine and supportive and real.
My greatest fear is that even though there is no direct conversation, communication still occurs. I’ll let you figure that out, having already stated the obvious.
Tonight, I received a letter from some grade school friends, that spoke of a reunion of our eighth grade class. We are reaching a golden anniversary, and it would be cool to get everyone together. I looked at the list of classmates, and was immediately flooded with emotions, like I knew exactly what was going through my mind, on those days, those years in my life. I remember my 7th & 8th grade years being filled with tragedy, changed the course of my thinking, forced me to be a more empathetic person than I was as a 12 year old. I kept looking at the names, and recalling just how young and naive I was.
I share that story because decades later I’m still naive. I’m caught in a corner, and no matter how much I grieve I reveal so much in my words. Yes, it does help to try to find peace in my own life, but at the same time it prevents the communication I so desire. In the end, it remains a facade that satisfies curiosity without ever really needing to delve further inside the personal pain.
This is not a window into my soul. My heart bleeds.
© Scott F Savage 2019