“I’ll Tell Myself That It’s Okay & This Time I’ll Believe It…” – Says The Pretender To The Mirror


I’ve been posting pretty infrequently the last few months, to the point where I’m sure some of you wondered if this blog had been abandoned. It hasn’t, however I have found it difficult to update of late.

I always assumed that such a huge slump in my posting would be due to me reaching a point where I had nothing to say. In reality it’s quite the opposite. I’ve had a tidal wave of hellish events come crashing down and I have so much that I want to scream that it all seems to have created a choke point, a violent, tangled mess that has all of my words piling up on the back of my tongue and paralyses my fingers above my keyboard. A deafening roar of white noise drowning my focus and my creativity until I’d rather hide under my desk than sit down to write.

Actually no, that’s not strictly true, I have no problem churning out an essay or another chapter for the book I’m starting to think I might actually finish some time this decade, it’s only when it becomes personal and emotive that I find myself completely tongue tied.

This is in no way a new theme for me, I have never been entirely at ease expressing my less comfortable emotions….or any emotion for that matter. It’s just never before been an issue in my writing, it was actually sort of the whole point. I first turned to writing to counteract my inability to communicate in any kind of open and honest way and while writing open letters to strangers is perhaps not the healthiest of outlets it does in some way subvert the walls I’ve spent two decades building, even if it is the emotional equivalent of posting naked photo’s on the internet. Too intimate for public consumption but laid bare for the world to see anyway.

It’s a conversation with someone who’s opinions and judgements of me I never have to face and there is something endlessly comforting in that.  A nameless, faceless companion for the times I feel adrift in a sea of supportive, caring, well meaning loved ones.

It’s not like I don’t understand that there’s something not quite right about that.

I would love nothing more than to be able to tell the love of my life how I’m feeling when she downright begs me to. I would love to confide in my best friend that I’m scared and confused and not okay when she ask’s how I’ve been. I would love to have a conversation with my mother in which I don’t make Mt. Everest into an anthill. I just don’t know how, and every time I try I find my self desperately trying to swallow my own heartbeat while listening to my voice, sounding light and carefree, saying “I’m great, how are you?”.

For the record… I am not great.  I honestly can’t even remember what it feels like to be okay.

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