This is a repost from February of 2010.

This is for clarification. This is why I do what I do. More specifically: this is why I write what I write.

I began pouring myself into writing just a few months before my grandfather (at peace, faithfully departed) passed away, and it was the day that happened that I discovered notebooks to be fearless and loyal friends. They never balked at what I was feeling or the questions I had. They wandered open-eyed through my daydreams and little stories I made up when I wasn’t paying attention in class. The took my confusion without question and ate up my fear. This is where I learned to do what I do.

This is how I handle things still today, except I have an online venue and I have a few friends with the same writing style who hear me and appreciate how I say what I say. Even though they are few, I actually feel like I’m not alone and talking to a wall. Because with notebooks, while they are not deaf, they are mute.

Most of my emotions are poured out here. While yes, this is processing it publicly, this is also my way of trying to express myself and say things for everyone to see instead of keeping it to myself. I put things here that I don’t know how to talk about.

I mean, how do I say “Well, I was actually really confused when you told me you were getting married to the girl you talked weekly about breaking up with. And maybe you thought what we had was different than it was–or actually I was probably the one who was confused. Either way the wires were crossed and I was completely blind to you when everything was right in front of me!” Or how do I say “You were one of the most poignant individuals I’ve ever had the privilege of speaking with, and I honestly think you’re dead because you dropped off the face of the earth around St. Patrick’s Day and I can’t find you.” Or how do I say “You are sending me completely contradictory messages, and you mean the most to me anyone ever could, but you’ve made me miserable and all I want for you right now is to hear my pain.”

I can say all these things with precision now, but while they were all happening I didn’t know what to do with myself. All I had were these very real emotions, and I wasn’t sure why I was having them or where they stemmed from. It took time, understanding, and just letting myself just feel what I was feeling before I could even begin to see what was bothering me. This is my way of talking it out with myself, processing it, and saying “Really? So that wonderful note you left on my car in the rain turns out to be for nothing? I mean, I wouldn’t change things because I’m happy, but I quite honestly have no idea what’s happening.”

I funnel my happiness into other places than my writing. So, my notebook, or blog, is the receiving end of everything else. While they all might be perceived as “bad” because they are emotions other than happiness, it doesn’t mean I’m depressed or scared, or anything else. It just means I’m dealing with it. In fact, if it shows up here, it means I’ll probably be alright because I’ve released it. I’ve pulled the pain, or confusion, or stories from inside my ribcage and sculpted a bird with it, and let it fly. This is letting my heart be instead of fighting like I have for most of my life. This is me loving myself for feeling everything and anything I feel.

So, this isn’t depression. This isn’t self-doubt. You need to know to read between the lines, to hear the mood of the message and not the actual words. These are my emotion pictures. These are photographs of my soul. This is the pure, emotional, white hot center of me talking. This is the poetry that spills from a mind awake. This is me being frank and honest with myself. (“Can I be frank?” “Certainly. Hi Frank, I’m Deanna.”)

I don’t want worry, I don’t want pity, I don’t want to hurt a flea, or anyone. All I want is clarity, the expression of self, to send the letters I wrote but never sent, and for someone to see me. I write this to find myself, to find understanding of my own soul, and for the few people that think like me.

This is my soul out loud. Tread carefully, for this paper dove is alive and fragile.

Photo credit: Flickr / shelaya