I’m not ready to talk about some things.
There are some parts of my life that I still can’t bring myself to talk about- at least, not in a serious way. It’s one thing to make a joke hinting at that hidden darkness, but it’s another thing to open the curtains and expose it to the light. I think most people have some experience with that feeling in their own lives. Hopefully the darkness they hide isn’t something as dramatic as trauma or abuse, but maybe it’s an insecurity they don’t want people to know about, or secret they aren’t ready to share. Try as they might to hide it, bury it, or wish it away- that thing is always there. Acknowledging it , naming it, makes it harder to ignore. And talking about that thing makes it real. So, instead- we ignore it if we can, or joke about it in an attempt to belittle it, if ignoring it is no longer an option. But talking about it is only attempted when all other options have been exhausted. Mainly because talking about our one thing is so exhausting.
I ruminate about everything.
Maybe it’s because I am an introvert, or maybe it’s just a symptom of my anxiety, but I think deeply about everything. I analyze, contemplate, and theorize about my life, my thoughts, and my emotions. I look for patterns and explanations, causes and effects, actions and reactions- anything to help me make sense of the world. But, even with all that inner-work, there are still some puzzles left unsolved. Talking or writing my thoughts into words has always helped me to make a beautiful design our of a tangled web of abstract thoughts, but first I have to gather all the loose strings. Fiber by fiber, I have to gather the loose ends and tie them into a single string. Only then, when all the pieces are woven into a continuous thread can I start to construct a visible pattern. It’s only at the end that you can see how each little piece of story or memory contributes to the portrait of who I am- like how thousands of strings woven together form a tapestry. Like all intricate needlework, the process requires both practice and patience.
Right now, I’m still gathering my fibers.
I feel that I have a tale to tell, but I cannot organize the words. There are still pieces missing, and the pattern is still not set. It’s like trying to build a puzzle without the picture and only half the box. I cannot talk about it yet, and I can’t write about it yet, because I’m not ready.
Bringing Mae Flowers 