I've been meaning to start writing again for quite some time. Although ink is my preferred medium, I feel as though I no longer have the luxury of being able to keep a physical journal. It was so much easier when I was a teenager, living under my parents' roof where I had a room of my very own. A room with a door that was almost always locked. A room that no one entered without my permission and/or supervision. A room that was, looking back, rather small but full of secret hiding places. It was easier when I could write furiously and uninterrupted for hours, and then lock my secrets away inside a desk drawer.
It is so strange. I never realized how much I took for granted until very recently. I always found my parents to be a little bit overbearing. I never thought that I had enough privacy or enough independence. I felt confined. I was misunderstood. I thought that "marriage" and "a place of our own" would give me some sort of new-found freedom. I couldn't wait to escape from the house that I grew up in.
Funny. I feel like I have less freedom to express myself now than I did then.
I'm not sure where to start, exactly. I suppose I should start this blog the same way I started my first session with my psychologist. After a bit of small talk, I said, "Look...we could spend the next few weeks playing 20 Questions and making small talk...I could let you guess what's wrong with me...but...I'm just going to save us both the time and the trouble. This is why I'm here..."
This is why I'm here.
I'm here because I desperately want to believe that, although I am odd and oftentimes alone, maybe someone somewhere needs to read what I have to write. I need to believe that my experiences can somehow benefit someone else. At the very least, I need someone to chuckle at the constant running gag that is my life. I'm here because I need some sort of acknowledgement...even if it is just from myself. I need proof that I was here and that, yes, these things happened. I tend to doubt (and forget) things that don't have physical evidence, so I collect mementos of particular places, people, etc. This is kind of the same thing. A very elaborate memento. A memento to help me remember myself.
This is why I'm here.
I'm here.
