im back in salem and it sits the same, like a heavy weight in my stomach or a feeling of being a little unseen: a window partially covered, a light flickering, a cloud over the sun. this morning especially so, though my friends are in the kitchen, though a breeze drafts through my room, though the day sits waiting for me to fill it.
something about overcast days and creaky houses reminds me of stress and sadness and im worried im letting so many people down. two days, two separate situations saying ‘im annoyed’ and ‘you messed up’ and im too sensitive for this. when people criticize i want to hide, i want to crawl under hills, i want to wrap myself in blankets and curl into a corner and feel the feelings and so this is what i do. with tea and candles and telling myself that when people are upset that doesnt mean im wrong. when people are upset, sometimes they are wrong. when people are upset, sometimes i need to take my own side
and the drama in me sighs out, oh, sometimes living is like being an open wound and the salt is just text messages and casual words and how can i be so thin-skinned in such a gouging world
and with that sentiment, sad-me leaves my little cocoon nest and goes into the kitchen and makes myself breakfast oats and tells the roommate whats on my mind. there was miscommunication with someone and its this whole thing and when i explain it he laughs and its so clearly ridiculous and i crack a smile and then we are both laughing and —
its not all so bad.
its not all so good, the world, our nation, right now. but its not all so bad, not all of it. not laughing over oatmeal and not me, at my core, and thats the fear, right?
so, anyways, ashley wrote about blogging and i tell you these little stories, these morning oats and little thought because
i write so that i can speak, i write so that i can see the words i need to read. when the world pulls me down and im confused and tense and disappointed in myself, i get levity. i get agency. when i write my own story i am both storyteller and main character. i get to rewrite my narrative. i get to choose how to see my world. i get to open the door and invite you into my universe.
i dont know if you see me as i want you to – as a friend, as someone doing their best, as someone constantly apologetic and trying to be kind, as a thinker and brave doer and all the things i like to think i am. i do know that i dont like opening up out loud, i stutter and sweat, i avoid hard conversations, and this is why i dont like telling someone off for blaming me for someone elses mess and this whole situation, but anyways, when i write
i want you to see how the corner feels when i wrap the yellowstone-green blanket around my body and sit in my too-tight hat from b and feel the comfort of walls close and warmth closer. i want you to see how i sit and think and ask myself whats happening in my heart and slowly the sun filters through the broken white window blinds onto the scratched up wooden floor and how i start to remember all the wonder that is me and my life. i want you to taste the oats as i eat them slightly under-cooked in a too-hot-to-hold metal bowl and talk through my mouthful to caden and the sun shines a bit more inside me too.
i write so i can feel, and so you can feel it, too.