Another blank page. What to write about this time?
More and more I'm becoming aware of other people reading these entries, and I wonder how much that's affecting my writing of them. Am I editing myself unnecessarily? Is this diary supposed to be entirely for me, or is it a communication beyond my self, a conversation of some sort? It certainly has been, at times; several times my writing was spurred on by something Jessica or Scott or Samantha commented about a previous entry.
It's the nature of the beast -- if I'm going to post my diary on the web, I'm going to get comments -- but it takes some getting used to sometimes.
Why am I writing about this? What does it matter, aside from stating the blindingly obvious -- that people will respond to my writings, and I'll respond to the responses, etc?
I guess I'm just making sure that that's ok with me. Re-evaluating why I do this self-portraiture, this self-exposure. Am I still enjoying it, getting something out of it? What do I want? Why do I do this?
As I so often do, I am once again re-evaluating my life. Sometimes I wonder if I do that too much... sometimes it might be better if I didn't worry and just clung to my "plan" a little tighter and endured the bumpy road a little longer. Not that my plans change all that much from point to point. Just that maybe it would save me some stress.
It's ingrained in me, though. Always question. Funny thing is, I don't know where I learned that. I sometimes think it came as recently as my early dating relationships, where I learned I didn't ask enough questions of myself and my S.O., and thus the relationships sank into foolish mistakes and dissatisfactions.
Anyway. Point is, I'm not happy, in a deep and abiding sense, and I could swear I remember *being* happy, only a few years ago. Did something happen to me to take that bud of joy, or have I actually got a rose-colored window to the past?
The simple answer is, it's Caltech. My failure to thrive at that school... the school's failure to educate me... my failure to learn...
The other day, I realized how many different loves I've lost over the last four or five years. It's no wonder my mood sinks from time to time. I once loved to study, to learn. I loved science, I loved math. I loved Karen and Beth and Laura, and Mollie and Rachel, and I can no longer even talk with any of them, either because they don't want to hear my voice, or because I cannot speak my heart's thoughts without breaking apart.
I loved to act, but I haven't been onstage in four years. Jesus, I used to do a show every other month in high school. Only my performances with Ecphonema and Out of Context kept me sane, but I left them both because, as much as I love and need the high of performing, even more I need a greater dedication and passion to the entire work, something that I could not find in either band.
(On a side note, it sounds like OoC is really kicking it up a notch in that respect; a part of me wishes I could rejoin the group, but I know that would throw the balance, and I wouldn't fit in. Too bad.)
I loved to put myself out there, at risk, and somehow I had no fear. Everywhere I went, I'd wear hats or a cape or, for the longest time, a lab coat that I never washed. I ran through hallways barking like a doggie. I'd skip, I'd make faces. I'd smile.
There are so many things that draw me to Sangeeta, but perhaps the most powerful one is her own desire to smile more, her memories of giving the present of a smile to others and how good that felt. Inspiration is such a precious thing.
Maybe I just need another comfortable lab coat to make me smile more. ;-)
She writes with such candor, such true soul passion... but the strange thing is, I don't know if I know her, who she really is. Mysteries within mysteries.
There are people who keep their souls gently hidden under the shades of their eyelids, who skirt the shadows or even carry the flame but never does the light shine on their whole face. They choose to keep sacred the depths of their heart's yearnings, an ocean unplumbed by all but the most select few. And when you are chosen -- take a deep breath!
I wonder how much that applies to me, if at all. Sometimes I think of myself as inherently honest to the point that the rest of the world can see the rivers of my thoughts, the seas and oceans of my emotions play out across the map of my soul, my face.
And then I realize no one knows who I am. No, not even you. I am a dark bay, full of bottles with messages carefully sealed within them. I am more alone in a crowd than I ever imagined I could be -- and when I was younger, I was very, very lonely, and could imagine an awful lot.
I wonder if that's because no one's dared (or bothered?) to crack me open and search me out. Or am I just too reserved, too terrified to be judged not enough? And where does that fear come from, anyway?
It would be easy to say it was the fact that my mom left my dad when I was three and I couldn't understand that for years, so I guess I thought he didn't want me or want to tell me he loved me or I wasn't good enough to be loved by him. Fact is, though, I don't really remember feeling that way. I just remember wanting a dad and not understanding why he didn't at least write to me. The only thing I remember ever getting from him was a little card with a one-line note and $5. It was so insufficient, I have no words to describe the ache.
But like I said, I'm not so sure that that's why I protect myself, hide my deepest needs and dreams from others. I think it stems from later in life.
It starts when, as a child, I had few friends. At Sugar Creek Elementary (where I went from 1st to the middle of 4th grade), I had a small group of friends: Reggie, the two Brians, a few others. But I was really young then, and didn't need to talk or share anything other than Tranformers.
Middle school hit, and friends got very hard to find. One friend a school was doing well for me -- William and Matthew at Heinz Elementary, William again at Von Steuben Middle School, nobody at Washington School for the Gifted (but William was still around), then away from Peoria and on to Florida where there was Rich at Palm Bay Junior High and Fred at Lake View Middle School (was that the name? I can't remember, oddly enough).
Now, let's face it: my friends and I were nerds, the outcasts of the outcasts in those schools. Communication with other people was a rare and strange concept, and having actual friends was an even rarer reality. Simply having somebody, anybody there to stand by you was overwhelming, and more than sufficient to create joy in your heart.
So why is it that I want more now? Why this semi-sudden need to be more deeply understood? Why can't I feel that joy of having someone, anyone choose to be my friend, and be happy with that?
I wonder if it's an age thing. Is this wandering and wondering a phase that twentysomethings just go through? Actually, I tend to go through the normal phases a few years delayed from others my age, which makes me wonder if this melancholy and yearning is more common for those turning 20 or 21.... That would fit in my catchup range -- all of which seems especially odd when I consider how I like to think I'm mature for my age and all that.
(Boy, that's a poorly written paragraph! Ah, it's getting on to 4am at this point, and I need to go to staff meeting tomorrow at 10am. Bleccch. I wish I could convince them to move the meeting to the afternoon... but then I'd try to sleep through that as well, probably. ;-)
Back to my point... I think the reason I've begun to hide myself ever deeper (and the reason why I wish other people would choose to dig harder and further to find me) is that I am, indeed, older, and have hurt and been hurt by people. Dams get built, scars grow over the wounds, defenses sprout up all over the psyche.
I don't want to hurt people anymore -- an example that I only realized recently is, when I was a kid, mom came down hard on me whenever I got angry, so now I literally freak out when I snap at people and let my anger show, rather than accepting that as a natural response. Also, I have made so many stupid mistakes when speaking to women whom I'm interested in that, as much as I want to live an honest life and be loved for all that I am, I too often prefer to live with hope and someday than the risk of no and whatever-go-away, you're-neither-interesting-nor-attractive.
My ache of wanting to be known completely culminates in wanting the ultimate woman. I want someone who can slay the dragon, kiss my nightmares away, and with a voice of trumpets knock down my walls, either with a thunderous passionate blast, or lovingly, patiently, brick by brick. I want someone who will arm wrestle me for every word my soul bears, and win. Can I be a flower, a soul to be plucked from my all-too mouldering garden? I will be your knight, too, and your laughter, your dreamweaving starcatching summer wind. I will search through all the fires of Hell and Hades for where you hide the cruelest, most perverse, most rotten parts of your spirit, and bring them back to you, and love them, if you will do the same for me.
If I was caught within my heart's tomb, would you save me? Even if that meant getting to know me, all of me? Even if that means keeping me from sabotaging your efforts, as much as I want them to succeed?
Grey skies... grey rain... grey earth...
Winter roams on. I tumble into bed and want to wrap myself with a never-ending cup of hot cocoa and books of beauty and release. But release does not come, while Sturm and Drang reign high overhead, over heart, over soul.
I cried myself to sleep last night. I barely know why. I don't cry often, and this was a hefty one.
Why do I always feel like I want too much, when even that seems not
enough?