On the subject of journals and writing

I had several diaries when I was young. I wrote in just one of them, and only a few times a year, if that often. You may be wondering why I bought so many when I never even used them. I didn't quite know at the time, but I was young and much less aware of myself and the motives that drive me. I know why I do it now. I use the present tense here because I still have the same habit. If you walk around my room back home, you will find journal upon journal, and all but one or two of them are completely empty. Even here in my dorm room I have about three of them stashed away. I know I already have more than I could possibly need, but I can't help but buy them.

It's the blank pages. There is something very alluring about a book with no words. They have the potential to be anything. They could be everything. That's what draws me in.

The problem is that this grand, romantic notion then makes me afraid to actually write anything. I don't want to taint the pages with anything trivial or frivolous. All of those crisp, white sheets are perfect, and to mar them with my words almost feels like an atrocity.

At the same time, though, the empty pages are heartbreaking. What good is a book if it never gets the chance to tell a story? Just as I am reluctant to write in them, I hate to leave them void of any words at all. By writing something down, even if it's nothing but blathering, the book gains a voice. Not writing anything at all truly robs it of its potential.

I often wonder if anyone else has this sort of complicated love affair with journals. I imagine most people wouldn't have any issue buying one and filling it quickly with their thoughts and feelings and daily goings-on, and yet it's the silly little writer who can't bring herself to write. I suppose I just care too much about the pages and the words and whether or not I show them enough respect.

Despite all of this, I have recently begun writing in a journal, and I plan to continue writing in it. It really is a great form of catharsis. That much I had already learned from starting this blog. I had never put much stock into it when people said that keeping a journal was good for you. I figured that writing my thoughts would be no different from thinking them, and if it isn't any different, why put forth the effort? But typing all of these posts has made me genuinely evaluate everything, and actually putting things into words allows for a deeper understanding than just thinking in ideas. Maybe it's the writer in me, but I find that writing thoughts down on paper is even better. Taking control of a pen and forming each individual letter gives the words more meaning. It makes them more personal. I love the tangibility of the whole experience.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that writing in any form, whether it be pen and paper or keyboard and blog, is worth your time, and a blank piece of paper—or a white screen with a blinking cursor, as the case may be—deserves to have a purpose.

To wrap things up, I'd just like to say that this love letter to books and pages and words and thoughts is longer and more serious than I originally intended. That's another wonderful thing about writing; once you start, the words take over. The things that come from your own mind can surprise you sometimes.

Everything you hoped would last...

...it just always becomes your past.

I'm supposed to be doing homework. I intended to be extremely productive tonight. I really did. But I've got some stuff weighing on my mind, and I just can't concentrate.

When I think about my life, I think of it in segments. The first segment starts as early as I can remember and stretches up to the point when I got sick, the second segment is the time which I spent floundering on my own after getting sick, and the third segment begins with the formation of my current group of really good friends.

I had a pretty solid group of friends when I got sick, and somehow that all just fell apart. By December of my second freshman year of high school, I had basically lost touch with all but one or two of them. About that same time, I began hanging out with some new people, and those friendships have lasted since.

The problem is that I still can't wrap my head around the fact that I lost the friends I used to have. These were people I'd been friends with for three, six, ten years! Even worse, the friendships I managed to hang on to through that year—with friends that were with me for more than a decade—have since dwindled.

One the one hand, I'm incredibly grateful for the times that we had together. I wouldn't trade my memories for the world. But at the same time, it breaks my heart every time I think that memories are all that I have left. The best friend that I grew up with, the one I think about every time I hear certain songs on the radio, or pass by our old “haunts” in town, the person that kept me holding on to what little sanity I had when I was fourteen... she's no longer in my life. That kills me.

A few of my old friends used to be Facebook friends with me, even after we lost touch. Somewhere along the way, almost all of them “unfriended” me. We never spoke to each other, so not having them on Facebook isn't a huge difference, but knowing that they had chosen to delete me hurt when I discovered it. It hurt a lot. It didn't hurt as much, though, as still being Facebook friends with the people that used to be in my life, seeing what they post, and feeling so disconnected.

I see things all the time that make me want to comment. Things they say that make me laugh, goofy pictures that are so typical of them. I never know if it would be appropriate to comment. It would feel awkward to just comment on something out of the blue when we haven't spoken otherwise in so, so long. Sometimes I type something then delete it without posting, because I honestly don't know what their reaction might be. I wonder if they look at my posts and have the same thoughts. Do they miss me as much as I miss them? Do they have the same fears about trying to make contact only to discover that there isn't any hope of rekindling that old friendship?

The worst part is seeing a post that makes it clear that they are unhappy or having a terrible day. I want so badly then to reach out and cheer them up. It's been so long now, I don't know what I could say. I don't know them or the struggles they face these days. But I think about them all the time. I worry about them.

I've spoken before about these people—the ones that stayed in touch longer than the others. There were only two of them, but they were my real friends through everything. I often wonder if they ever read this and know that I'm talking about them, and moreover, to them. I miss you guys. I miss you more than I ever thought I could miss someone. And I want to talk to you. I do. I'm just afraid that maybe you don't want to talk to me. That maybe I'm just a sentimental sap that needs to learn to let go.

Maybe I'll work up the courage to talk to you some day. In the mean time, if you are reading this and you ever have the same thoughts, maybe you wouldn't mind letting me know. You could post a comment or send me a private message on Facebook. For that matter, you could text me if you still have my number. It hasn't changed.

If you are reading this but you don't want to let me know, that's fine. I get it. The past is the past, and we're different people now. Just know that you meant everything to me when we were growing up, and I still think about you all the time. Wherever life takes you, I hope you're always happy.

As for my newer friends, you guys rock too. I don't know if I make it known well enough or often enough, but I love you and I know I wouldn't be where I am today without you.

Confession #55

Being short is aggravating.

This post comes about as a result of a very brief but panic-inducing encounter which lasted long enough to scare me but not long enough to cause public humiliation. What happened and how did my height (or lack thereof) cause it, you ask?

I got trapped in a building with automatic sliding doors. Again.

This incident may have only lasted two seconds or so before someone walked up behind me, but still. Two seconds is plenty of time for panic to set in.

(In case you're wondering, the last time it happened, I was about seven or eight years old and got stuck in a grocery store. My mom had sent me, by myself, to take a basket back inside. The doors were already open when I approached the store, but they were closed by the time I had returned the basket and wanted to leave. The sensors above the doors couldn't see me, and the doors wouldn't open. It. Was. Terrifying. I was trapped there for two or three minutes (which felt like an eternity) until another person walked up and was tall enough to properly exit the building.)

Yeah, it's a laughable situation now, but it's still frustrating. I don't think normal-sized people really understand what it's like to be short.

It's really annoying to go places with my little sister, who is eight years my junior, and have people speak to us as if we are the same age. This happens all the time, and it wouldn't be such a big deal except for the fact that she is currently a smaller than average twelve-year-old. Every now and then I get the urge to say something like, “Listen, pal, I understand that you're trying to be friendly, but stop patronizing me. I have a vocabulary full of things that my parents have to look up, so just use your grown-up words, okay?” (But then I remember that I'm afraid of people, so I just smile and nod and let my sister do the talking.)

A couple years ago, my family went to a casual sit-down restaurant where adults were given beverages in non-disposable, straw-free cups. I got a styrofoam cup with a lid. When my sister started middle school, I happened to be with her at back-to-school night (don't remember why...) and was mistaken for an incoming sixth grader. I was nineteen. The day I moved into my dorm room last summer, my family and I went to out for lunch and I was offered a kids' menu. Two months ago, a volunteer Santa gave me a goody bag and told me to be sure and mind my mom and to keep my room clean. Gah!

People often tell me that being short is not a bad thing. Said people have obviously never been in a position where they couldn't even see out of the peephole in their door, or couldn't reach something in their closet without using a stool, or couldn't properly sit in a deep-backed chair because their legs were so short that sitting all the way back would require them to have their knees straightened and in the seat with them, with the result being that they sit forward in the seat to allow their legs to bend but then have to lean way back to reach the back of the chair, while their feet still don't touch the floor because their legs are just that short. Not a bad thing. Hrmph. Oh the stories I could tell! I haven't even mentioned all the problems I faced as a kid!

Sigh.

Okay. I'll stop ranting now. I'm fine, I swear. Just needed to vent. Haha.