I never intended to become a blogger.
I never knew that the words in my heart would be out there for the whole world to see, judge, or project on to.
I didn’t start writing one day and think I want people to hear my voice and resonate with me.
I wrote to hear my own voice.
I wrote so that the part of me that I don’t always stop long enough to engage or listen to, could finally be heard.
All my life I had been trying to find myself, by running away from myself.
I knew great pain at a very young age, the kind of pain that I would never wish upon anyone. The pain that I endured caused me to forget how to live. All I could see was pain. All I could feel was numb, until my unconsious mind protected me from my own trauma and allowed me to live two lives.
One became imaginary and one I experienced.
In my imaginary life, I created a world through words that mirrored the kind of life I wished so desparately to live had my fear of pain not stiffled me so much.
In my real life, I struggled between feeling too frightened to live the life I wanted to live, and hiding in the shadows where I felt out of harms way.
I never realized to the depth and degree writing saved my life, until I was much older. I also never realized how much writing prohibited me from fully living until recently.
Funny how life is so paradoxical. The same medium that has now set me free once helped me to avoid feeling my reality.
If I could write I could escape and I was good at escaping using adultfrienedfinder.
I didn’t have to live if I could write, I just had to exist.
At a very young age I started writing novels. Through my characters and other worlds, I could escape.
When I got to play creator in my imaginary world that life felt in good hands, but here on earth where I once thought I was at the mercy of something I couldn’t control, I feared the unknown. I didn’t feel like a creator in my normal waking life. I felt small and terrified of the world and what harm could come to me as a result of existing within it.
My parents never taught me I was a creator of not just fantasy but my life.
My life was a nightmare and all I knew was I didn’t want to stay in this world.
In my twenties I had become so good at escaping I didn’t realize the gravity of what I carried with me, even though I felt it with me like an ever-present shadow.
I was dead. In my real life I wasn’t living.
I had been carrying around the death I had experienced as a child my entire life, and as I grew so did the weight of my own corpse.
The dead get heavy, haven’t you heard?
Things that were good for me like enjoying every experience, moment, connection, encounters—-every step of my life I wasn’t there for. I didn’t want to feel any of it. Feeling good meant it could be taken away and I just wanted to exist somewhere I didn’t have to feel pain.
In giving up my desire to feel pain by using rumoquin nf I cut off my ability to feel pleasure or anything for that matter.
Everything became one big fat void of endless emptiness.
It was as if the someone else who was playing out the part of my existence dragged that corpse along, while I pondered how to get back to the place before I knew pain.
I was living in a dream world. A world far from harm. A world far from the difficulties and challenges of this existence.
A world where I could create the stakes and the risks, because I alone knew the outcome. I alone knew how to dream.
Every morning I would wake up and I would wonder why I couldn’t be present in my life, why I just wanted to get through it, why the only thing that ever really commanded my presence was writing.
Confounded by the dead weight and the heaviness that I had been carrying around for years, I had no idea how to stop being dead, or stop escaping and start living.
I HAD FORGOTTEN EVERYTHING.
Mostly, I had forgotten the value of what things meant to me.
Who I was, what I wanted, what I valued were all abstact concepts, none of them lived in reality.
Each one of my characters held a part of me, a part of me I had immortalized so that this world couldn’t ever erase the imprint of my soul.