Eighteen days doesn't seem like a lot, but I've been gone since before then. I talked to a really good friend tonight, and out of frustration I just asked him WHY, if I had so many things swirling around in my head and my heart to put on "paper"...why couldn't I do it? Why am I feeling choked.
As sometimes happens with questions like that, I actually ended up getting to the answer right as I finished typing the question. But...as only friends can do...he tough loved me a little. Go do it. Talk is cheap. Shut up and dance. (Ok, so he didn't quote Aerosmith, but the idea is the same.)
That I had a close friend to confide in about this who understood and encouraged/tough loved me is reason enough to realize all my reasons are...crap.
See...I've been gone from here, and I've been hoarding. Hoarding all my words and all my feelings. I've been taking up other challenges, and that's good- I'm going on a kayaking trip tomorrow to cross THAT off the bucket list because a few years ago I got injured 2 days before I was supposed to go on a trip down the Des Plaines and I always wanted to kayak down a river all day. I'm very excited about that and proud of the fact that I didn't let time convince me not to go. I'm proud that I spoke up and just went for it and I'm proud that when I first got in a kayak to practice and it felt insanely unstable and tippy right off the bat, that I didn't let fear win and just write it off as too dangerous because I hadn't done enough of it recently. I realized I can swim, and my body remembered the motions, and when I just took a deep breath and calmed down, the boat steadied.
BUT.
Even though I'm actually *doing* more things I had meant to do...I'm still hoarding. I'm still hiding. I have NEVER gone on a trip full of so many wonderful adventures like I did in April and not come home just brimming with stories and thoughts and feelings to share. But look back at that last post here. That's half of a trip, and I just stopped writing it. I was face to face with mountains and the sun was on my shoulders and hummingbirds danced outside the window at our dinner table, and it was incredible, and I felt just a little bit healed. Maybe a lot bit. But I couldn't even put that much out there.
There's so much since then and some of that story still floating around in here. There's stories I want to tell and ones I don't yet, but will. But hurt people build walls, and I was going Cheyenne Mountain base style. The thing is, it doesn't make me happy to hide. I love to let words breathe and live and maybe mean something to someone else. I want to share my life and in sharing mine get to know more about other people's lives. I'm sick of the fort. I've got cabin fever. I've gotta get out of here.
Maybe I'm afraid to get hurt more. Maybe I'm afraid to talk about being hurt still, because so many other people are hurting, even the ones who hurt me. Maybe I'm afraid people are thinking
"Aren't you over that yet?"
"Why is that still important?"
"Who cares?"
Maybe I'm afraid that I don't have full control of my emotions still, and while some days are really awesome, some days suck hard.
I've been overly cautious around most of my friends and overly cautious in new friendships. And I don't like it.
"I'm tired of meeeting people who define themselves by what they don't like. I don't like that" -Mike McGee
Maybe...if I don't like something, I should do something about it.
Maybe that's why I wrote this.
Thanks, Trev.
You reminded me to shut up and dance, and you reminded me what the walls keep out.
