A Story - pt. 1
It is time.
For too long, I have procrastinated or in other ways prolonged the period of quietness that has hence ensued my suffering. Perhaps - nay, without doubt - I know it has been good for me to sit still in such thoughts, to piece together the jumbled mess of my mind; but I know now that I must deal with these broken story pieces that have for long only forced their way to the surface of my consciousness through reflections in the mirror of other stories. I must now express them to the full extension of their enormity - to the extent that they demand to be felt, heard, touched.
But I can not pretend completely that I did not know such other stories were influenced by the ripples of my pain. I must not pretend that I did not have some inkling of an idea that my stories had the tendency to become a disguise of such emotions that simply hurt too deeply to feel. Such was the depth of my pain that it was easier to write it into other people. I was unable to touch the personal horrors I have experienced, so I instead wrote them into the fabric of other stories. I wrote pain or joy or brokenness into others, if only so that I, myself did not have to deal with such emotion. I hoped I would someday be able to face my own. I needed such quietness of mind. I needed the solemn loneliness of my story untold. I needed the heaviness to rest upon me so that I could most fully absorb its magnitude - so that I could understand or at least try to comprehend the implications of such a story upon my life.
But I must say also that I have abstained from the telling of my tale for the fears that have threatened to come along with it. Some of my deepest fears have lain in rejection. I have feared that I may hurt those I love.
Far more pressing, however, I have feared that I will not be able to tell my story to its fullest immensity. I have feared that I would make simple the things that have so thoroughly transformed and shaped me; that the limitations of my speech or my knowledge would veil the urgency or the magnitude of the story which I write. I have feared that in the avoidance of exaggeration, I would easily fall into the telling of such an underwhelming tale that it does not truly represent my story.
My last fear has been that those who read may merely take my story to be the complaints or laments of an overdramatic or attention-starved teenage girl. But as I have said before, I write not out of the desire for pity. I have surpassed so shallow a point. I write for many reasons, but most clearly, I write for myself, that in processing my own emotion I may better understand my being; thus, moving onto the advancement of my character. In many ways as well, I write for others. I write for those who may feel ostracised in their suffering, for those who may feel that they have no place to speak of their pain because of the brevity of their story, or else the seemingly inconsequential disaster that has stormed upon them. At times it may seem that I am my own enemy - that I have only driven up such emotional suffering from the dramatic imaginations of my mind. But my deepest desire is to merely lay out my story, baring it honestly so that others might gain something, something, from the endeavor. I suppose it will only be up to you what to take for truth, or otherwise take to be my own theatrical creativity.
So I am to the point that I am so full of words that they are screaming for their need to be written. It is my duty to write them; I hope that in doing so I may in some way contribute to the understanding of people. That such who have no doubt evaded such a story may become more empathetic for others' silent cries for help.
Finally, let me tell you. I know my story may seem hardly affecting. I know that I have not faced death, nor such inhibiting suffering, nor struggled against such great odds. I know I have not seen the end of the world, nor come to some great awakening, or, even still, uncovered the mysteries of human existence. But I know also that my story has come to encompass the ending of my own perfectly strung together world. And I feel in some ways that I have uncovered a piece of myself; I hope that in sharing the most guarded imaginations of my heart that in some ways you might begin to uncover pieces of yourself as well.
It is time to tell it.
These are the precursor words. The ones that I hope will prepare me for the perseverance of character that is needed to tell such a story with honesty, dignity, and a certain level of passion. They are the words also that I hope will guard my heart against the pain of reliving such a story.
I hope, dear reader, that you will be with me as I do.
For too long, I have procrastinated or in other ways prolonged the period of quietness that has hence ensued my suffering. Perhaps - nay, without doubt - I know it has been good for me to sit still in such thoughts, to piece together the jumbled mess of my mind; but I know now that I must deal with these broken story pieces that have for long only forced their way to the surface of my consciousness through reflections in the mirror of other stories. I must now express them to the full extension of their enormity - to the extent that they demand to be felt, heard, touched.
But I can not pretend completely that I did not know such other stories were influenced by the ripples of my pain. I must not pretend that I did not have some inkling of an idea that my stories had the tendency to become a disguise of such emotions that simply hurt too deeply to feel. Such was the depth of my pain that it was easier to write it into other people. I was unable to touch the personal horrors I have experienced, so I instead wrote them into the fabric of other stories. I wrote pain or joy or brokenness into others, if only so that I, myself did not have to deal with such emotion. I hoped I would someday be able to face my own. I needed such quietness of mind. I needed the solemn loneliness of my story untold. I needed the heaviness to rest upon me so that I could most fully absorb its magnitude - so that I could understand or at least try to comprehend the implications of such a story upon my life.
But I must say also that I have abstained from the telling of my tale for the fears that have threatened to come along with it. Some of my deepest fears have lain in rejection. I have feared that I may hurt those I love.
Far more pressing, however, I have feared that I will not be able to tell my story to its fullest immensity. I have feared that I would make simple the things that have so thoroughly transformed and shaped me; that the limitations of my speech or my knowledge would veil the urgency or the magnitude of the story which I write. I have feared that in the avoidance of exaggeration, I would easily fall into the telling of such an underwhelming tale that it does not truly represent my story.
My last fear has been that those who read may merely take my story to be the complaints or laments of an overdramatic or attention-starved teenage girl. But as I have said before, I write not out of the desire for pity. I have surpassed so shallow a point. I write for many reasons, but most clearly, I write for myself, that in processing my own emotion I may better understand my being; thus, moving onto the advancement of my character. In many ways as well, I write for others. I write for those who may feel ostracised in their suffering, for those who may feel that they have no place to speak of their pain because of the brevity of their story, or else the seemingly inconsequential disaster that has stormed upon them. At times it may seem that I am my own enemy - that I have only driven up such emotional suffering from the dramatic imaginations of my mind. But my deepest desire is to merely lay out my story, baring it honestly so that others might gain something, something, from the endeavor. I suppose it will only be up to you what to take for truth, or otherwise take to be my own theatrical creativity.
So I am to the point that I am so full of words that they are screaming for their need to be written. It is my duty to write them; I hope that in doing so I may in some way contribute to the understanding of people. That such who have no doubt evaded such a story may become more empathetic for others' silent cries for help.
Finally, let me tell you. I know my story may seem hardly affecting. I know that I have not faced death, nor such inhibiting suffering, nor struggled against such great odds. I know I have not seen the end of the world, nor come to some great awakening, or, even still, uncovered the mysteries of human existence. But I know also that my story has come to encompass the ending of my own perfectly strung together world. And I feel in some ways that I have uncovered a piece of myself; I hope that in sharing the most guarded imaginations of my heart that in some ways you might begin to uncover pieces of yourself as well.
It is time to tell it.
These are the precursor words. The ones that I hope will prepare me for the perseverance of character that is needed to tell such a story with honesty, dignity, and a certain level of passion. They are the words also that I hope will guard my heart against the pain of reliving such a story.
I hope, dear reader, that you will be with me as I do.
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