Wednesday, July 29

A thousand words, and nothing to say

My hands have spent the last few minutes hovering over this keyboard; poised like a tidal wave, just before before it crashes back into the turning sea.
   There are things I want to say, yet I don't know how to say them. I'm unsure of where---or how, to begin.
   Me, with all the words in the English dictionary, and I can't string enough together to tell you what I'm feeling in this moment.

   Where do I start?...

   Maybe where everything begins.

   Change, uncertainty, but most of all: fear.

   It seems that my trials in life are mental, rather than physical. Everything I've dealt with to this point has tested me emotionally, rather than physically. I can vividly remember points during my adolescence, when I was overcome by a darkness I cannot begin to describe. If I had to choose a time when I felt the most broken, it would be this. My very being felt invaded. I carried a sickness in my heart that others couldn't see; yet that was more real to me than anything I've ever experienced. It pulsed in my throat as though it were an organ pumping vile acid through my lungs. At times, I would lay on my bed, and cry that If I could only dig it out I would feel better. It felt so physical to me, so real. There was something inside me, physically filling my chest so that it made it hard to breathe. It made it impossible to feel anything other than the murky darkness that became my constant companion.
   I felt fear then. Real, human, fear. Fear, that this sickness would never leave me---and that I would spend the rest of my life under the disbelieving gaze of those around me, while my soul pleaded for silence.
   However, I was saved. I suffered so much during that time, yet the moment I surfaced from that nightmare stands out to me the clearest. I can remember the day I no longer felt a crushing weight against my chest. I cried and cried---not out of sadness, but out of absolute joy. I felt free. I was free. Something had removed the darkness from me, and for the first time in months, I could feel the world around me.

I don't know what you would call this. Depression, insanity, hormones---it doesn't really matter to me. All I know is that I would rather cut my own legs off than do it again. I met with a force in that time that I never wish to meet again.
   I did grow from this though, despite how painful the lesson was. I grew a lot in empathy, and in understanding. My blog was even born because of it! So, good things do come from hard things. However, these past few months have my philosophy on that. I think for the second time in my life, I'm about to meet something bigger than I feel I can handle.

College is just around the corner, and with that rides the host of my childhood fears. I can remember being fourteen years old, and freaking out over thoughts about leaving for college. 
   I feel like I shouldn't be reacting this way, I feel like the normal eighteen year old girl takes a cake walk to college without any second glances. By that definition however, I'm certainly not the average eighteen year old girl. I have never been so absolutely terrified of anything as much as I am of leaving.
   On one hand, I feel a glimmer of excitement. I'm getting older, I can feel it now more so than ever. Something inside of me is bored with my life, and myself. I crave excitement, I want change. I want to have an actual selection of friends I can choose from, and feel like I actually belong somewhere socially. I want to have fun---in a different way from the kind I've had on my own. I want to go to parties, join friends as they nerd out over the new star-wars movies. I want to stay up late talking with my roommate, I want to have someone I can connect with as much as I connect with my sisters. A best friend, a boyfriend, I don't care. I just want someone in my life that will bring color to the drab walls of my comfort zone.
   On the other hand, is my fear. It would be presumptuous of me to say I love my family more than anyone does. ---but I'm gonna say it. I really love my family more than anyone does. A part of me believes that If I leave, I will lose the relationship I treasure with my parents, brother, and sisters. I think of coming back after having a horrible experience at college, and realizing that things are no longer the same at home. That I don't fit in like I used to.
   The thought breaks me.
   Somewhere subconsciously, my doubts and anxieties are taking their toll. I've been having panic attacks frequently as of late, and my left eyelid goes into spasms daily. (Which, according to my eye doctor, is a sign of abnormal amounts of stress on the body.) I've woken up three times in the past month, just sobbing. Sometimes I feel so stressed that I feel nauseous, and shaky. I can't do this, is the thought that persistently haunts me. What if I really can't do this? What does that make me?

One month left before I leave. One month left. One. The thought fills me with equal parts of dread and numbness. How am I going to survive this? Unlike before, my family wont even be an option for support. I will be alone, just like I was so long ago---stuck like a prisoner, inside my head.

So there. I've said it. Everything I'm feeling now.
I've spoken the words of my heart, and now have nothing left but hollow questions.
I'm so scared.
So, so scared.
I don't want to be alone again.

Tuesday, July 7


I don't remember how old I was when I decided I wanted to be a writer. All I know, is that since then the desire to create has consumed me. However, perfectionism has become my downfall. Its fed off the doubts I've willingly handed it, and tainted the only thing I've ever purely loved doing.

I'm eighteen now, and after so long, this is the first time I've ever considered doing something other than writing.  There are options which seem more realistic, and would make me more money for me than the meager life of  a writer. The question is though, could I put to rest the one thing about myself I've always been sure of? That I could write, and that if everything else failed, I would always have my writing. I've compared my talent with so many others, that in some ways I've pulled apart the threads to the canvas I was just beginning to design. There were choices that I made; choices of comfort over trying something hard.
Last night was the first time I felt regret for being who I am. How can I go back to a life of normality, when I've tasted such raw magic? ---But, how can I continue on, when with every step my desire to make things perfect destroys just a bit more of the dwindling pool of creativity I have left.
There are questions. So many questions. What will I do with my life? Is my writing salvageable?  How am I going to pay for college? Should I major in my second love, science? Why are people so hard to work with? Science is so hard, can I really do it?
Yet it all comes back to just one simple thought: I love writing, with a passion nothing else can touch. I want to spend the rest of my life trying to improve it, I don't care how I have to do it.