I’m quiet. I’m a blusher. I’m in my mid-thirties and yet, here I am. Awkward and nervously smiling each time a person I don’t know attempts to make eye contact. Shouldn’t I have grown out of this by now? A new opportunity presents itself. I get excited, I process. Then, I’m anxious. I feel agony at the thought of going out to a large party, yet, oddly resentful and worried if not extended the invitation. It’s a tiring race of hills. Running up and down this valley of emotions isn’t an easy feat. I frustrate myself quite often, but…admire myself too. I don’t need much to be riddled with glee…
An old black and white movie playing in the background while I cook a yummy meal (while sipping wine of course), a poetic song that latches onto my soul, soaking in an amazing cup of coffee in the quiet dawn, enjoying a meaningful conversation with a like-minded friend, reading a book that makes me bite my finger nails and wonder how much longer I can get away with “wasting” my weekend reading when I really should be “adulting”.
Then, some days, I wake up…ready. Ready for what you ask? I want to go out and be amongst a group of lively, carefree folk, enjoy a concert or just feel the energy of a large room and get lost in the crowd…forget who I am for a bit and pretend I’m not awkward and that loud noises don’t drain me. The days that I’m able to act on it without letting my overthinking nature take over and talk me out of it are far and few. But sometimes, I outrun those maddening thoughts. And those moments are quite freaking fantastic by the way! But then…THEN, I come home. Tired. Drained. Pleading to be left alone for some recharge time. Sleep won’t do it. I need to just sit, doing something of my choosing. Alone. This pattern is something I have come to know well.
Writing. One of those other simple things that brings me so much satisfaction…she’s my friend. My confidant. My S.O. of sorts. We get each other. No judgements or confused expressions leering back at me. Cause ya know, she is me and I am her. So we…we just know. She nods along as I scratch away at the paper, marveling of how I handle such daft circumstances and snorts at my sarcasm. I write to express all those outlandish feelings no one else will get. No one else, but my writing.
