I think I might be regretting having boxed myself in to one theme with the name of this blog. I don’t know that I really want to write about my anxiety so much as to escape it, or at least cope with it through my writing.
I wanted to write to share something, but how to narrow it down to what I wanted to write? They say to write about what you know: Feelings? Poetry (the not-too-structured/rhyming kind my partner likes to argue isn’t poetry)? Anxiety and the 9 million and one ways it plagues me? These are the things I know… I’m used to writing my thoughts haphazardly in whatever notebook I happen to have nearby. There is no order; I open a random notebook to a random clean page and start writing whatever random words decide to come. Always my feelings. Always trying to understand why. You won’t find many real events being described in my writing; it’s cryptic, even when I talk to myself. This is also the reason I love poetry so much– you don’t have to come right out and say it, but you can put it down on paper, in black and white: your heart, your truth, your everything, in your own secret language.
I didn’t always have such a hard time communicating my feelings, but life changes you. Toxic relationships; the inescapable trauma, pain, and grief of any life lived long enough– you don’t escape those things whole. I am not whole. Words are my love and passion in so many senses, yet I cannot speak them to even the people closest to me. I cannot and do not express things verbally; important things like love and gratitude, pain and sadness. I’ve become incapable of speaking such simple words. I find myself sitting next to the person I so desperately want to share my heart with, but the words just won’t come. There is only a constant internal dialogue, the poring over every possible word choice for what I want and need to say. I cannot make the words make their sounds. I cannot say, “I love you.” “I’m proud of you.” Or, God forbid, “I’m hurting.” or “I need ____.” Anxiety takes over and I only imagine all the possible negative consequences– that I will misunderstood. That is the worst. Too many times, misunderstanding has just made a mess of everything. So I let myself be misunderstood for my silence instead.
Last night, there was a small breakthrough though when I let my partner (I should write about him some time!) read almost an entire notebook of things I had written- mostly my cryptic poetry. I even explained some of them for him. It’s a big deal for me.
I suppose that is all I really needed to say. I began writing this post with the regret that I had placed myself in too narrow a space to write in a way that suited me, but no, I think it will be just fine.