First of all, I started really writing last night.  It was difficult,  which is no surprise.  What I am discovering is I am really good at details and clarity when describing an event, and I am really good at relaying my emotions when writing to someone I am emotionally involved with, but I am having trouble doing both.

     I an a really emotional person.  Man, not just emotional….I am a basket case.  I have always been this way.  When I was a kid I can remember getting pulled out of the lunch line in elementary school because I was banging my head into the wall.  Why?  I don’t know.  I had been skipped a grade and I didn’t fit in…I got made fun of and I think at that time that was the way I was dealing with it.  Also of course is the chaos in my home.  I will write much more about that.    The daily fighting of my parents and all the late night horror shows I would creep out of my room to witness… probably made me that little weird kid who bangs her head on the wall.  Even then, I knew I didn’t feel right just being me.

     I am still that way.  No I don’t go around banging my head into walls.  But still, I am uncomfortable in my own skin.  I am uneasy around people.  For instance, my neighbor right now is a really sweet girl it seems,  and she has been periodically reaching out to me wanting to chill together.  I always say yes, but I never make an attempt to knock on her door.  I also tend to feel kind of relieved when she doesn’t knock on mine.   I feel like I am not suitable for normal people I guess.  It’s like, I know where I have been, what I have done, and I know that if THEY knew….well, they certainly wouldn’t want to be neighborly anymore.

     The weird thing is, I can work and kiss ass at a job.  I can talk to people and put on a good show.  I just know that what’s inside doesn’t meet what’s outside.  I feel like I keep a truth inside that I can’t let anyone know.  Whatever I do, I can’t seem to maintain it.  I can’t find a persona or a lifestyle that I can sustain.    I keep melting down and changing, not in huge ways but just enough to keep my life inconsistent and painful.  Maybe it’s only apparent to me, there are a few people who have known me for years who don’t seem to pick up on this, but as any addict knows, we have this whole inner life that does not match the outer life.

     So last night I wrote all about one of my arrests.  I was pretty good at describing what happened but it was as if I was seeing it on a T.V. screen and not living it.  I almost could not connect with the feelings I had when it was happening.  I am going back and editing and going to figure out all the messy feelings that came along with it.  I guess that is what writing is about, isn’t it?