I write about roads a lot, or This is why I should sleep at 2 AM

I’ve often told myself that feeling is better than not feeling. That giving things a chance, not giving up, living in the moment is better than wondering if a chance you let slip by would have been worth it. And yet I’m terrified of such things. So I retreat into books and movies and my own imagination. Because there it’s safe to feel. There I won’t be judged as too loud, or too emotional, or too nosy, or too annoying. There it’s not the world’s standards I’m held up against, but my own. Not that my own standards are that much better, not for real world issues. So we don’t talk about those in my imagination. We talk about people I’ve never met, places I’ve never been, and problems that I don’t have, at least outwardly.

For the last yearish I’ve had a consistent character who appears in lots of things and either can’t speak, or chooses not to. She hangs out in several of my books, and occasionally shows up in my musings f what it would be like if I was a character in one of my reading books or shows. The thing is when she first showed up, and still if I’m being real honest, she could sing in front of people, even if she couldn’t speak. I’ve wondered a lot what that means, since around most people I’m rather the opposite. Talking I can do all day long given the proper context, but ask me to sing and I’ll either get very quiet, or give you a half assed performance that my aunt/voice teacher would cringe at only because she knows that with confidence I can do better.

So what’s the difference between me and this character? Why is it that talking is so hard, but singing is easy when I have exactly the opposite problem. The answer comes, as usual, through much thought about things not pertaining to this character at all. Actually it comes from manga.

The manga (Japanese comics for those that haven’t already asked or googled it) is one that I’m not going to bother to explain because it would be tedious and half of you wouldn’t get it anyway (Holic for those of you that know about such things). The concept through which my answer came was a very simple one, food people make tastes like them. Not the actual person, that would be gross and creepy, but each person’s food has a unique flavor that tells you about them. Whether they like sweet or spicy things, how much salt they like on food, the types of food they like or don’t. You can read all that from cooking if you’re paying attention.

After I read that I got to thinking that so much creation is that way. You can tell cooks from flavor, artists from brush or pen strokes (pretty sure a friend gave me that one, but I can’t remember the context. You know who you are), sculptors from tool marks, musicians from melodic lines or feel, writers from style and voice, camera men from angles, editors from cut length and speed, directors from aesthetic choices, actors from voice or physical cues, and singers from voice and stylization. There is nothing created artistically that doesn’t have imprinted in it something of who the creator (small “c”) is, their thoughts and feelings, the emotions they felt when they made the piece.

And that is why I’m terrified of singing in front of people, showing off my drawings or my writing, or writing more than three lines of a song.  Because as much as I long for community and understanding and being a part of a greater whole it’s just easier to be by myself. To keep my emotions in a bottle in my brain and only bring out the really strong ones when I know no one is looking. Because as long as I’m alone I don’t have to be rejected. And as long as I’m not rejected, I can pretend the loneliness is better that the alternative.

So my work sits in boxes, or notebooks, or my brain, and rots. Because it’s easier. What a stupid reason to be alone. And yet personally, it makes a lot more sense than giving it my all only to be let down again. Because giving my all is embarrassing. It makes it far too easy to be misunderstood, and if there’s one thing I fear more than being alone it’s being misunderstood. Because that means I failed to connect, and failing is just another kind of rejection. Only it’s worse, because it’s self rejection and I can’t get away from it. I can’t pretend it doesn’t exist, that I didn’t try, that things are the same as they always were. Because they’re not, they’re worse, and they’re worse for trying.

So I don’t try, or I try not to try. But little by little my confidence builds back up and I think “Maybe this time, maybe this time it’ll be different. Maybe I’ll finally try hard enough that it doesn’t hurt.” And for a while it might not. But it never lasts. I will always trip. And when I do the pit I envisioned my senior year of college will swallow me again. And I’ll spend far too much energy wishing I could climb out on my own. And eventually, with help from the only one who’s never let me down I will. And I’ll try again. And the confidence will last a little longer, but not enough to follow through with the project, or relationship, or quarter. Never that long.

So I’m left with a question to face. And sadly it’s the same question I started with an answer to: Is trying even worth it? And I look back at the path I’ve taken and all the times I’ve tripped and stumbled and fallen on my face, even if I was the only one who saw it. And I’m terrified my answer will be no, even though I long so much to say yes. Because I look back at the hardship and selfloathing and doubt, and it’s so hard to see the good parts in between, long as they may be, when there’s no one to point them out.

So I get that assurance, my confidence in a bottle, from other people, because it’s too hard to see myself. And then I hate myself for having to depend on others at all to get something I should, as a strong, independent, self sufficient woman, just have.

Luckily my coworker+ recently posted an article she thought I should read, and I did. Here's the link if you feel like reading it. Maybe it won’t mean as much to the rest of you, but it my proverbial nail smack dab on the head. For those of you too lazy to read it, the article is written by a man, and talks about something called “gaslighting” which is a manipulation technique, used both on purpose and unconsciously to make a person feel like they are overreacting to a situation thus making their feelings about said occurrence seem invalid, even though they’re not. Typically this comes in the form of statements like “You’re overreacting” or a mean or abusive comment followed by “I was only joking” or “can’t you take a joke”. Although personally I feel like my gaslighting came more in that the other person’s reaction was bigger, more intense, or long lasting, making my feelings less adequate by comparison, and thus unimportant.

Not that I believe anyone did it to me on purpose, it’s just a thing that happens in our society especially, according to above article, if you’re a woman in our society. Thus I grew up to believe that if I wanted people to like me, and not think I was a burden, or annoying, or a “silly” or “dumb” girl, it was my job to be happy, but otherwise emotionless. And I’ve lived up to it well. I can count on one hand (give or take a finger or two) how many people outside my immediate family I have been in actual arguments/yelling matches/fights with. Of those I can count only two or three that I still talk to, although most of that is not due to the fighting, but simply time and distance. I can count even fewer friends that I’ve cried in front of without feeling embarrassed or the need to laugh it off for a reason other than physical pain, and even that embarrasses me. All of those people I’m still close to. Because those were the people God gave me that were safe enough to open my heart to. If you’re that group, consider yourself honored, because it’s not something that happens very often. If you’re not in that group, it’s not you, it’s me.

And as hokey as that is, I mean it sincerely. It takes me an excruciatingly long time to get to know people, and even longer to feel like I can let them know me. For all the reasons above and a million more. But please, please don’t give up on me. I’m still figuring out this whole life thing. And I may not be very good at it yet, but I plan to get better. To see the good I do a little bit more on my own. To take chance I don’t ordinarily take and reach out in ways that scare me. To work a little harder at escaping the immobility that keeps me from doing my best and showing all of you who I really am. And to move into a life and mindset that I am legitimately proud to call me own even if the voices in the back of my head tell me I’m stupid.

Someday I’ll have gone far enough down this road that tripping will seem trivial, and the falls that once stopped me in my tracks will only slow me down. But until then, be patient with me, walk with me when you can, and know that any step we take together is one I treasure, because it means some cared enough to take the time to walk beside me.