The Stories I Tell Myself

'This, Too, Shall Pass'

There's a quickening – an acceleration – in the blurry passage of years. Days bleed together, with less and less differentiation; sleep, wake, eat, breathe, repeat.

My vision, once crisp and unmuddied, has lost something of its youthful clarity, obscured by age and the inevitable accumulation of ideas...about myself, the world and my place in it.

I reach for the girl, once hopeful, who so believed...'things will get better.' I search for her in old journals – in her idealistic musings, wrought with heartache, confusion and frustration, but also a steadfast certainty that it would all work out...somehow.

I long for a touch of her blind faith – her untarnished willingness to just keep fighting, no matter how painful or difficult – trusting she was moving ever closer to a less arduous 'someday.'

That was how I survived.

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11 February 1998 (age 22):

'Desperately hanging on.
Grip slipping.
Strength waning.
Hope shriveling.
Motivation rapidly drying up.
Patience, my only surviving virtue.
WAIT....WAIT.....WAIT.
Life....will improve....someday.
I pray 'someday' decides to introduce itself soon.'

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Between The Covers

There were times when my journal felt like my best friend; the one I could most easily confide in, revealing the unguarded, messy truths of my internal conflict – my lofty daydreams – my aching, unrequited crushes. I filled pages and pages, turning a rather ceaseless contemplation into books that tell the story of my life.

Aside from cringing at my penchant for being overly dramatic and smirking at my pervasive overuse of ellipses, I find it fascinating to revisit these pages. However uncomfortable it may be, it also offers invaluable perspective.

Each entry is an emotional snapshot etched with ink and paper – little vignettes that capture something of 'time' and 'place'.

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10 June 1998 (age 22):

'It's all a bit baffling to me; the world...the mechanism...whatever does or doesn't control it...who I am within it. Some unrecognizably significant component.
Something, yet nothing...less than a spec of weightless dust...floating unnoticed in someone else's perfect, spotless world.
Apathetic voices echo...out there.
A few more sleepless souls...zombies.
Another empty bus passes pointlessly by.
Angry words thrown flippantly about...inadvertantly hitting my window.
Chaos; my all too intimate neighbor.
Sleep...dreams...shut out hopeless Haight Street.'

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27 January 1997 (age 21):

'Ever tightening are the grips of depression. Ever-threatening are the unexplainable tears. Confidence crumbling...knowledge eludes me as to why. Their fingers poke and prod in failed attempts to provoke a smile. Questioning eyes..."What's wrong?" If I knew the answer, perhaps the problem would cease to exist. • I feel so extremely alone...unable to uphold any friendship for too long. I know everyone exists in their own perceptions/projections of reality, but I feel as though mine is drifting too far...out of reach... making it difficult to co-exist. No one truly sees 'me'...not my real face. I am a mask, concealing something from the world. And, more than anything...hiding from myself. Perhaps that's why relationships never work for me; I wouldn't wish this incessant confusion upon anyone. And, to be close to me...is to become tangled in my perplexity. • I am forever gray...bordering on black... yearning for white. Never happy with where I am...wanting more. Who could love such an unstable soul...when I can't even love myself? More easily, I would think, one could loathe me as much as I loathe myself...if for no other reason than because I loathe myself.'

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^{• age 17, writing in my journal •}

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Seedlings

In the descriptions chosen by my younger selves, I perceive hints of the writer I was unwittingly cultivating. Like unrooted seedlings in upset soil, underdeveloped and immature, slowly working their way toward the surface.

I'm surprised by bits of poignant poetry – impressed by their cadence and content – recognizing the beginnings of my signature, literary style.

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15 February 1995 (age 19):

'Lingering emotions...
Surpassing love...
Kicking dust in friendship's face.
Yesterday's blossom
...today's withered rose.'

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30 November 1999 (age 24):

'Poetry is dead in me.
I'm shrinking inwards...
Shying away from everything...
Shunning the air around me...
Failing to wipe away my own tears
...so they roll steady....
Over my jaw...
...down my neck...
......between my breasts...
Baptizing me in humility.'

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While there are threads of resilience woven throughout, what strikes me most is the understanding of just how long I've been struggling. Sobering to realize...I've been... so...very...exhausted...for more than two decades.

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5 June1999 (age 24):

'Broken down...leaking...dripping at the seams.
Tired...emotionally worn-out...overflowing...embarrassingly obvious.

Funnel me into something smaller...easier to grasp.
I feel so...impossible to conceal...disgustingly sensitive...pathetically neurotic... unsatisfiable and perfectionistic...pitifully human.
Sleep; rescue me...I beg of you.'

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^{• age 27, during my first trip to Victoria, BC •}

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Writing is an integral part of my medicine.

As long as I am still becoming, I'll be attempting to articulate the details of my unfolding. However neglectful I occasionally become, I know I'll never cease trying to understand myself (and the world) through this medium. Though I'm quite sure I'll yet again fall quiet, I'm equally certain that I'll always find my way back to this therapeutic craft.

I also know – the remedy writing affords me is catalyzed by sharing it with others.

From very early on, I've written in a voice that welcomed an audience. Only the first two journals (of eight) were diary-style and private in their tone. Even as a young girl, I was painfully aware of the inherent loneliness of being human – a collective truth I believed might be softened through the honest, candid telling of my most intimately vulnerable stories.

Despite the unfortunate stretches of silence during years when I forgot the importance of wielding my pen, there's so much contained in these books, and more still filling my various blogs and online spaces. So much evidence of my own fallibility – the earnestness of my intentions – the clumsiness of my whimsical heart – the resilience of my tenacious spirit.

There are many more entries that could've been included here, yet I feel inclined to leave them where they are for now – safe and sacred on unseen pages. Perhaps I'll begin to pepper my posts with more of them, whenever it feels relevant and appropriate to do so.

Thank you so much for reading and, more importantly, for listening.

xo, zippy

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