For Me.

I’m not someone who is often left without words. I may not always be willing to talk your ear off (especially if I am internalizing things or you are someone not to be trusted, which is more often the case than not), but given a little time and some spite (because I seem to be repeating my teenage angst years), I can turn a phrase. Weaving words into some sense of meaning has always brought me a sense of accomplishment. Not in the sense that there is any real skill displayed, but more so in the sense that when I’m able to describe the inner workings and complexities of the situation at hand, I put down my pen and heave a sigh. Because putting to words my feelings is always complex. Because as self-reflective as I am, my general nature hates being told what I’m feeling and thinking. Chances are, if I’m being told I’m “like this” or “like that” I will immediately feel misunderstood. Descriptions fall flat and are always inadequate. Because the intricacies of my personality (and I would dare to broaden that to encompass most people) are not understood by me, so how could someone else know what I think and how I’ll react? I would “rather be hated than loved for what I’m not”. Overdramatic? Yes. True? Yes.

I place such a value on words, so lately, my feeling of having no words has been unsettling. My blog has been left untouched, my journal forgotten and even my little computer entries have disappeared. I’m floundering. And anyone who looked closely at me and knew me would be able to see that. I feel lost like any fourteen year old is lost. I have forgotten who I am, what is important to me. Life is full of complicated mysteries which I neither have the patience or the fortitude to solve. I would love to believe that I have a some stoic nature, full of perseverance and inner strength. But instead I feel worn down by life. I want to work through it (when I’m not throwing a perfect pity party) but I’m not sure exactly which direction to go. I crave something that I cant quite put my finger on. And my weakness infuriates me to no end. Because I seem to be replaying all the past insecurities I would have sworn had been conquered long ago. But my personal journey in Boston (while cheered by my parents and told its impressive by strangers) doesn’t feel anything more than that of survival. Its not impressive and its certainly nothing to be proud of. Things I once knew with all my heart, seem less sure in this new light. I remember feeling secure once, but I cant seem to genuinely recreate those feelings again. I cant remember how they were created in the first place anymore or if they ever really existed. And I waver between hating home and all the unrealized hopes and dreams it once encompassed, and wanting nothing more than to crawl back to Alberta with my tail between my legs and shame written across my brow. But it always comes back to my stubborn nature. I may be many things but something as impractical as running away would never do for me no matter how tempting.

So I am left in limbo. I want to have words – but every word that comes to mind is dripping with inadequacy. It seems that people only share when they’re coming down from the mountain of adversity, when the climb is now a  treasured memory of overcoming and the personal growth received from it. But what about the climb? No one wants to hear about while you’re cursing and not treasuring that damn climb. And well, optimism has never been my strong suit.

While I was at home one of my cousins discovered that I blog and was immediately very critical of it. He couldn’t see the point in it (its little more than first hand gossip so he tells me). And as I tried to explain the value of a web forum such as this I realized that, while I appreciate being able to read about loved ones that are far away, and people I admire from afar, I like blogging because it gives me a place to keep track of my thoughts. Ya, there are journals and more private means of thought tracking. But why must we be ashamed of letting people in, even if its just for a moment. By no means do I have any vain illusion about my thoughts having much meaning to anyone but myself. But sometimes its just nice to be able to put them out there, even if no one really cares. The act of sharing is the important part, not who decides to read it. I love the thought of honesty, but dread the intimacy of it. But I see the value in the process of being able to record and remember. It really is not for anyone but myself.

I feel the need for change (then again, don’t I always?). And I want my blog to be MY own. Because what good is it to only write a censored version of events. That’s not reality and it certainly is not me.