I have been wondering lately if I am out of things to say.
I used to really enjoy writing. It would well up inside of me so that I couldn't help but put my fingers to a keyboard or pen to paper. It was an internal force that could not be contained internally. Not all the time, not every moment, but often. I used to love that.
Now I am tired. And exhausted. And I think everyone around me is equally tired and exhausted, so I feel like writing about it would be exasperating to people. But then I think it might give some solidarity to others who are feeling the way I am feeling. Then I fall asleep, from the exhaustion.
I think in order to start, I just needed to be honest. About the exhausted. And the uncertainty.
Intelligence is learning a lesson. Wisdom is knowing that you will learn that lesson over and over again throughout your life.
Lately, people around me have been using my narrative. Sometimes in the way they build their understanding about someone or something, or in order to better tell or explain something, or because it seems "neater." This use of my narrative is sometimes a misunderstanding, sometimes with my permission, sometimes it is without my permission or knowledge. But I am realizing more and more that I have been allowing it, because I have been unsure and uncomfortable with my own voice. My own ability.
When I was younger, I accidentally hurt people by not being transparent about my entire narrative. And people used my narrative - or what they perceived as my narrative - in order to build their understanding, better explain, wrap up, and even to define themselves. This hurt them. And I allowed it to happen, not necessarily even aware it was happening, because I was unsure and uncomfortable with my own voice.
I am learning the lesson again.
Recently we went through something, yet another thing, that shook our family. Now, this thing was ultimately for the best, but it was a very hurtful thing that we are still feeling the fallout from. This hard hurtful thing partially stemmed from an incorrect understanding of my and our narrative. And as I sobbed gross tearful tears about this thing to my mother I asked "Am I growing yet?"
Because we want to believe that if we are experiencing pain, that there is purpose. That there must be purpose. We want to feel like there is a reason and that on the other side of the pain and the suffering there will be growth. Measurable growth and maturity and wisdom that we can take away in a neat little paraphrasable sentiment easily Tweeted or Facebooked or Instragramed. I want to believe that there is purpose to everything that I am feeling. And while there always is, it is not always easily identifiable. There is not always a light at the end of the tunnel, sometimes there is just more tunnel.
I don't write all of this to receive sympathy and I definitely am not writing it to receive advice. I write this because I have been wondering if I am out of things to say. I don't think I am, but I do think saying things will need to start with honesty, and me telling my own story again. Taking back my narrative. Because it's not neat, it's messy - like everyone's is. And the only one who has the ability to really share it, is me.
And God, but I don't see God blogging much.
So expect to see some things. Here. In the future.