This is a really long text blog. Don’t read it. 

I can actually remember the moment when I realised how much power they hold, I was watching an episode of Sister Sister, the one with the stolen slam book. If you’ve seen Mean Girls, it was basically that but on a smaller more contained scale. For those who haven’t, words were written, people who weren’t meant to see them saw them and people were hurt. 

“The truth hurts” goes the saying, while that’s true, I’d argue that any words at all hold the power to hurt. Be it the truth, a lie, a half truth or in some cases the absence of words. 

Hm. 

Yesterday I did something I had avoided doing for a while, I reread some old words. Words that I thought dead and devoid of life, words that held memories I’d forgotten or at least long ignored. That fracking sucked. I shouldn’t have done it. All the memories, feelings.. everything came back and the words were cruel and angry as they felt when they were first written. 

What upset me the most wasn’t the severity of the words, but how they made me feel. They made me feel weak. That is one of my biggest fears, next to being afraid of shadows in the darkness. I’m not sure if it’s a defence mechanism from being a minority and a woman, but the one thing I hate feeling is that someone feels sympathy for me. It takes a lot for me to ever get to a place I feel comfortable in my vulnerability. Sharing myself, my thoughts, my feelings in their entirety is not something I’m comfortable with. I love to share stories about my life and myself, but I hate to talk about myself.

I believe, truly that people at some point will let you down. “I will never hurt you” is a lie and I live my life assuming that everyone who I come in contact with will  disappoint me in some fashion. That belief often upsets people, but in my experience the more of your words, of your story you tell people, the more it hurts when they disappoint you.

So instead I would write. I would write the words, I create a narrative, then I share. I would share my words, my stories with those close to me, but I would never tell the whole story to one person. I could never trust one person with all of my words, with all of me. If I did that, if I do that then I’d be vulnerable, I’d be weak in their eyes, they would want to protect me. Thinking about it now makes me feel uneasy, the thought of letting someone that close is a seriously frightening thought. So instead I write.

It would seem having such a pessimistic outlook on forming relationships I would have none. I mean, how could someone so incapable and so fearful of being vulnerable form meaningful friendships? I learnt at a fairly young age that most people use the question, “So how are you?” as an opener to discuss their problems. So I became adept at reading conversations before they happened and knowing what version of my words the person would love to hear. I really should do Consumer Psychology. 

I’m so out of practice at being completely myself without first scripting my narrative that any attempt at me being utterly vulnerable and honest come out as awkward and disjointed. Much like this blog post.

Ha.

That’s enough of that. I’m going to bed.