The mockingbirds are mocking me.

I've been wanting to write something for a while now. I've been wanting to write anything really. My brain keeps telling me I need to write, but I haven't been able to think of anything to write about, fiction, nonfiction, or otherwise. Sure, I've had plenty of thoughts, but it has taken me this long to be able to put them into anything remotely coherent.

I've been on my own from 6:45 AM to 3:15 PM, Monday through Friday since I left school. At first it was nice having the house all to myself. It was quiet and peaceful. Not so much anymore. Now it feels too much like it did when I was in high school. It's quiet and lonely. The other day I was literally pacing because I didn't know what else to do with myself. I've spent countless hours watching Netflix, but that isn't a satisfying way to spend the day at all. Not when I've spent two and a half weeks doing little else.*

This restlessness I feel is actually worse now than it was in years past. Before, I was lonely and I wanted company, but I just wanted someone here at the house with me. One or two friends, or even just my mom, just so I wasn't alone. Now, I find myself wanting to be out and among people—any people, lots of people. At school, even though I spent most of my spare time on my own, I could hear my neighbors in their rooms and in the hall. I always knew that someone was there. Now I just feel completely shut off from the world again, and after spending so many months trying to get over that, it feels even more suffocating than before.

As nervous (and sometimes scared) as people make me, I want to be around them. And being around them is good for me. I know it is. I've tried tiptoeing through the waters, so to speak. I made a little bit of progress that way, got a little better at interacting with people, but not much. This past semester I was either half-dragged or half-pushed into the water, and the other half of me dived right in, and I came so much further in doing so. I don't want to lose that progress by being isolated again.

Of course, this isolation isn't going to last. I'm going to start working next week. Work doesn't provide much room for interacting with people, though. Well, not much room for interacting with people capable of carrying on intelligible conversation anyway. I'll be spending forty hours a week in a room with twelve babies and toddlers and my mother. Nothing against my mom, of course. She's great, and I love working with her. But spending time with my mom isn't exactly going to help me in getting over my anti-social ways.

I think I'm going to go back to posting at least semi-regular confessions. Even if they don't actually help me, I'll feel better for having made the effort. Haha.

*I haven't been spending all of my time in front of my computer. I can't sit still that long. I have also been crafting. The first two weeks I was home, I spent some of my time decorating school supplies to give to a dear friend for her birthday. Lots of glue and paper involved. The table in the sun room is still covered in paper. Last weekend I went to Michaels and bought a paper punch, so I've been using scraps to fill the house with these:

Three-dimensional butterflies. Oh yes.

And yesterday I started crocheting again. I had this grand idea to make a blanket out of lots of little granny squares, because I thought it would be super simple and quick given how easy it is to make a granny square. But then I realized that to make a blanket the size I wanted, I would have to make two hundred and seventy squares, and then I would have to stitch them all together. That did not appeal to me, so I thought I'd make the blanket out of some larger squares. It still would have taken around ninety squares total with my new plan, and that did not appeal to me either. My solution? One gigantic square. My work in progress, after putting in roughly five hours:

 Please ignore the loose ends. Weaving them in is my least favorite part.

Clearly I will be here a while. But it's keeping me busy, and that's the important thing! Not having anything to do makes my mind wander, and when my mind wanders, I worry about things. Anything and everything. Luckily, working for the rest of the summer will keep me too busy to worry. And when I'm not working, I'll be too tired to think. So hooray! Sort of. Ha.

From mountains to molehills

My semester is officially over <insert Kermit flail here> and I now have time to breathe. And think. 

The thinking is a little slow-going, being that I've barely slept in days, but I'm not stressing about studying anymore, so my head is at least a little clearer. I've been thinking about the past nine months and all the things I've done. I think one of my greatest accomplishments came just yesterday afternoon.

What happened, you ask?

I had a conversation with someone. And not just a conversation, but one in which I barely felt uncomfortable at all. And it wasn't just someone. It was someone I didn't even know. I'd never seen her before in my life! But we had a conversation, and I held eye contact with her, and when I laughed it was genuine and not out of nerves.

I could not tell you the last time that happened... if it has ever happened before. It's no big deal for most people, but it's a very remarkable step for me. The perfect way to end the school year, I think.

On should-haves, why-didn'ts, and what-ifs

I reread my last post this weekend. It's been bugging me. As I mentioned in it, what I published here was actually a rewrite of my first draft. In rewriting it, a lot of my original message was lost. I didn't realize that until I read over it again. I'm sure that anyone else who read it was able to understand the gist of what I was saying, but it still feels lacking to me.

In my original post, I discussed all the things I have wished to change over the years. Obviously my health and negative school experiences are at the top of the list, but there have also been times when I wished I could fundamentally change my entire person; I wanted to stop liking all the music and TV shows and whatnot that I liked and start liking what everyone else liked, because I just wanted to fit in. I wanted to be “normal”. And I tended to dwell on thoughts like that.

A couple of weeks ago when I said I've come to the conclusion that I don't need to change, those are the things I was talking about. I don't need to listen to the Top 40, or stop watching cheesy sci-fi shows with terrible special effects, or fawn over all of the currently-hip celebrities. You can like what you like and I'll like what I like. Who I am is who I am.

Likewise, there is no point in obsessing over past events. Even if I had a time machine that could take me back to my first year of ninth grade, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from getting sick. Even if I reacted to the situation in a different manner, I wouldn't be able to control how the school administration handled it. I wouldn't be able to change my friends' responses, and there's no way of guaranteeing that I could have prevented them from drifting out of my life. I can't change what's in the past, and even if I could, I really shouldn't. All of these happenings are what shaped me into the person I am today.

When I said I was done wanting to change, I meant I was done wanting to be a different person living a different life. I am still very much in favor of change in the form of personal growth; that's pretty much the whole point of this blog. Growth is all I've been striving for in the past sixteen months, and it's what I plan to keep striving for. I believe there will always be room for improvement of character. What I'm done with is the should-haves and the why-didn'ts and the what-ifs. All I can do—all anyone can do, for that matter—is play with the hand that's been dealt, because it was dealt for a reason. The dealer peeked at the cards before He passed them out.

I feel better now, having clarified. Although I'm pretty sure the clarification was unnecessary for anyone reading. Oh well. It's my blog and I'll ramble if I want to. Haha.

On cynicism, self-reflection, and silver linings

So. Funny story. I started writing a post last night, but I was half asleep at the time and got interrupted by a knock at my door, so I stopped writing mid-sentence and did not resume until almost twenty-four hours later, at which point I had sort of forgotten where I was even going with the post. Here it is twenty-six hours from the time I originally started writing. I have read and reread my finished post—which I have open in a separate document as I type these very words—and have come to the conclusion that it's rubbish. It sounds very contrived, which is not what I wanted at all. (Apparently my inner voice turns into a stuffy fuddy-duddy when I'm exhausted.) However, I still want to post something and share what's been on my mind lately, so I'm going to give you the SparkNotes version.

The past seven years made me quite a cynical person, and I've been trying to change that in the past several months.

I was miserable and lonely in high school. I won't go into detail here, but I have written about it in previous posts. What's relevant to this post is that I was isolated more often than not. So frequently I wished not only that my situation would be different but that I would be different. I just wanted to be normal. I wanted to fit in. Because on top of all of my health issues, I am what most would (and have, to my face) call weird.

I wasn't cognizant of it at the time, but all those months and years I spent in isolation weren't just a rough patch in my life; they were a formative period. Since I started this blog, I have been really big on introspection and trying to figure out why I am the way I am. In my mind, I have tended to focus on why I developed my negative qualities, like my cynicism and social anxiety. I have wished that I could be different in those respects too. I never realized that almost every. single. good. thing. in my life is there because of the exact same events that brought the undesirable things. Some are more indirectly related than others, which is why it took me so long to see it, but that doesn't change the fact.

As I said earlier, I have been trying really hard to change my way of thinking. I have been constantly reminding myself that I don't need to be different. The things that have happened to me had a reason for happening. They made me what I am. And were I other than I am, I would not be myself. That means that everything in my life would be different, good and bad, and I know that it isn't worth trading the positive to get rid of the negative. Especially since I have so many wonderful things in my life right now.

Confession #56

I haven't written anything in a few days, and it rather weirds me out. (Yes, I'm using "weird" as a verb. Deal with it.) I don't know why I didn't feel this same desire to write when posting a weekly confession was my goal. Hrmph.

Writing is on my mind again today. Writing and speaking. One would think that these two would go hand in hand. One would think.

When I write, it is often a stream of consciousness that pours from my mind onto the paper (or keyboard, in such instances as this). I write words as they come into my mind and do very little revising of thoughts until I have finished writing whatever it is I'm writing. Logically, the words I have written would be very much like the words I would say if I were to speak the same thoughts out loud. This couldn't be further from the truth.

Somehow, when I speak out loud, all of the eloquence I like to think I possess flies right out the window.

I often find myself stumbling to find the right word for what I'm trying to say, or using one word when I mean something different, even when those words are very common words that I use often enough to know better. Sometimes I say things that sound right, but aren't even words at all. I won't even get into how often I mangle syllables.

I'm not quite sure why this happens, but I have noticed that it happens most significantly when I am tired or nervous. Now, the nervous thing I understand, but that doesn't explain why it would happen during everyday conversation with a close friend. As for being tired, sure, that explains why my thought processes would be slowed, but it doesn't explain why I can sit here, completely and utterly exhausted, and type this without having any difficulty at all. Why, the sentences you're reading here are just as they were when they came to my mind, and I haven't had to go searching for one word yet. I don't understand how that works.

I cannot begin to explain the frustration I feel at not being able to recall a word when speaking with someone. Words are one of my biggest passions in life! How ridiculous it is not to be able to express simple ideas! Maybe that's just the perfectionist in me; if I can't say something properly, it bothers me to say it at all. Of course, not saying anything at all is not an option. I simply have too many things that I need to say. Or at least need to write. In fact, that's why I began writing in the first place. Little thirteen-year-old me had so many ideas that needed to be explored, but many of my ideas failed to resonate with my friends, and since I couldn't share with my friends, I took to paper and pencil. I had to let the ideas out. I'd go mad if I kept all my thoughts to myself. I'm already a bit mad as it is, so no need to compound the problem.

...

Okay, funny story. I got a phone call while I was in the middle of typing that previous paragraph, and now my train of thought has been thoroughly derailed. I honestly can't remember where I was headed with this post. I'm pretty sure I had a nice, neat conclusion planned out, but... eh.

In closing, I'd like to say that the most frustrating thing of all is knowing that there is a word for the condition in which you cannot recall a certain word, but never being able to recall what that word is. It happens to me every time. I have just looked it up, and the word for this condition is lethologica. I always swear that I'm going to commit that word to memory, but it always escapes me...

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.