As I Exist On Paper

I used to write a lot - journals and other stuff. In fact, at one point, when I was really young, I thought I wanted to be a writer. I was always amazed at the way that I could express something on paper that I could never express out loud. I could say the same thing and it would sound completely different. I think I have always had an ability to be honest on paper that I don't have anywhere else. Sometimes I used to be afraid to sit down and write, knowing that the truth would come out there and once you write it down, it's harder to take back. It can become hard to unconvince yourself.

I have written about being tired of hiding, tired of pretending. I have always felt like there are three different versions of me, at least, and I can never quite get them to converge. The way I perceive myself, the way other people perceive me, and the way that I exist on paper. None of these are true - none accurate, except maybe the one on paper - they definitely are not the same. I don't know if most people feel this way. I used to always say that the real me existed only on paper - that I am most me when I write something down and that I could only be myself if hidden in the pages of a notebook. Perhaps why I find writing this blog to be such an interesting exercise. I can be honest because I am not face to face with anyone and you don't know me. It is not unlike hiding.

Anyway, one thing that I like to do from time to time just for fun is look back at stuff I've written on a particular day - this time last year or this time 5 years ago, just to see where I was at or what I was thinking or doing. I did that last night. I looked back at stuff I wrote this time last year, which was right after coming into AA, and I found only one thing in November. It struck me because it describes very much where I am at today even though the underlying cause is very different. So, for a lack of anything better to post about, here it is.

November 18, 2005

The pain is unrelenting and it envelopes her, it coats her, it follows her like a shadow, trailing behind her, distorting her, and it precedes her into every room she walks into. It is the absence of light surrounding her that is the most noticeable and the most memorable.  The fact that she stands out now is only because she has tried so hard to go unnoticed. What used to exist and not exist in her world, what used to be true and not true, correct and incorrect, what used to be and the absence of what used to be - what was love or not love, hate or not hate, the poignant desire in stark contrast to the overwhelming fear - now co-exist entirely and only in varying shades of gray. They are tangled and inseparable. They are no longer the compartmentalized emotions from which she used to choose the seemingly most appropriate based upon her observations of other people. The clear path she used to walk in between them, between what was and what wasn't, is no longer there. It isn't love or not love, it isn't hate or not hate, it isn't this or the opposite, and she is no longer standing in between them - it is far more complicated than this. She relates to the present as if she is still living in the past and she has never been able to separate the two. What exists of her now is what has been left behind and what she has managed to narrowly escape with although the pieces don't fit easily together. She does not recognize herself and the glimmer of recognition in the eyes of other people is lost on her. What is left of who she is and what she has to offer, is laced with shame and regret, and among other things, fear. A Fear that is pervasive and unyielding, except when it gives way to the indescribable anger.