Talking is hard for me. I cannot always think of what I need to say or how I want to express myself. The anxiety of over speaking or under speaking, the anxiety of intention, delivery, receptiveness, listening, or’s, what if’s, what next’s, my teeth, my mouth, the words I pick, my hands, eye contact, judgment, biting my tongue, wishing I had, not knowing enough, knowing too much. The list goes on, and on, and on. I feel panicked. I am anxious talking about talking.
Journaling it out is not for me. It will do me no good to keep re-reading my own story and keep having the same thoughts and perspectives on it. Once I write it all out, I won’t read it again.
Blogging doesn’t really work for me. I’m quick to type a snarky remark, a sarcastic note, a completely bitchy series of words that does more harm than good, adds insult to injury, and provides a hiding place when I really need to confront what is going on in my life. Blogging turns into feeding my hunger for comments, my desire for acceptance, and a question and struggle of being interesting enough. What good does it to do to say things across the Internet, when I don’t really do my feelings justice through typing?
Phone calls don’t do talking justice. Phone bills are high. My phone is particularly hot when it is pressed up against my face for too long. I get bored easily, I get distracted.
Texting distorts intention. I text, as does the typical American 21 year old girl. My intentions get distorted. Other’s intentions get distorted. Things get over analyzed. Things get under analyzed. One word responses piss me off. 160 characters doesn’t help anyone express themselves fully.
Sometimes I think about writing my story down on tea stained notebook paper, in my own handwriting, preferably with a fine point sharpie marker, and mailing it to a complete stranger.
I want to talk about the thoughts I have and the things I’ve been going through lately, which is a huge step for me, but I have no idea how to do that.
