When I started this blog, now a little over four years ago, I made a commitment to myself to write each week. I wanted to put myself in a state of mind that I was going to write regardless of what I was feeling. Regardless of if I had something to write about.
I wanted to practice being a writer.
Most of the time I can.
But not this week.
It’s 10:45 on Sunday night and I had a part lovely/part anxiety filled day and the last thing I wanted to do is write.
But, here I am, cozy in my bed, with my desk lamp on, typing.
When I was little, like tiny human status, I had my tonsils taken out. When I had my tonsils taken out this one in a million type thing occurred where more air escapes out of my nose and throat then should when I speak. So, after this surgery, I had to learn to place my tongue and slow down in order to be understood.
And I got made fun of a lot. So much so, that I didn’t want to talk.
I retreated a lot and I took to writing things down.
Because if I wrote something down there was no question in what I was saying. But, if I spoke and didn’t enunciate correctly or mumbled at all someone would say “what” and I would stop talking.
(So, like obviously I would pick a profession in which no one understands me and I repeat myself all damn day)
I have felt incredibly inarticulate this week. I haven’t wanted to explain all the things (click this for all the things) and all the things have felt bigger then me. Each day this past week was full of lies and looks and situations that caused me to think less of myself and less of what I’m capable of.
This has been a week where I have wanted to be an island.
Now, I don’t write for pity, because good grief the things going on in my life are just not that bad.
I choose to write, even in the midst of it all, because I find myself to be more articulate in my written words. I write in the midst of it, because I am human. And so are you.
I write in the midst of it, because I’ve come to realize that I am a human who knows her vulnerability boundaries and I am choosing to share the 80%.
I write in the midst of it because I know, beyond a shadow of doubt that what I am looking for is already inside of me. I am already the thing whether I am silent or not.
I write in the midst of it, because I’m still here.
So, I am going to stay in the midst of it, and be where my feet are, and find those things inside that are already there.
Being in the middle, with no clue where you are going is difficult. But choosing to keep moving, choosing to speak, to write, to be, is so important.
You aren’t a mess.
You aren’t less than.
You aren’t broken.
You are human.
And you, my friend, are figuring it out.