Dearest Diary.

Honest thoughts from a tangled mind.

Readers of Shame Sandwich: For the first time in my 2 years of writing Shame Sandwich, I’ve found myself drifting into directionless mire, unable to write weekly for varying reasons. I’m terrified I’m going to shrink completely. But, I’m here today. And I’m exploring with writing ‘Dearest Diary’, a lightly edited version of the thoughts that tumble from my very tangled mind. I know I’ve only written sporadically over the last couple of weeks, and have been very, very bad about responding to comments. But I do read them all, and they touch me deeply. Thank you so much for reading today. 🖤

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Dearest Diary.

You are my original muse. The place I turned to for understanding when I had none. The only place where I ever feel truly seen, unflinching honesty staring back at me in the form of words thrown against the page.

I’m not sure why this is the case, but the prompt of ‘Dear Diary’ unleashes a torrent of truth. It practically pours out of me. As though I’ve been holding my breath until I tenderly write the words ‘Dear Diary’ and an inhale of relief floods my lungs.

In this capacity, writing to you, my Dearest Diary, I am able to converse with you. It’s not just me… drowning in my own thoughts. I actually feel like I have a friend. Or, if not a friend, a companion. No, I’m going with friend. My closest, most intimate friend. For you know all of my secrets. That is a horrifying thought. And immensely comforting.

Do you know how exhausting it is carrying secrets? It’s dreadfully exhausting. And I don’t necessarily mean secrets, per se. Just truths that I don’t know how to express. But I also have secrets. Dreadful secrets. Secrets that make my nervous system scream. Glass-shattering screams.

I’m so tired of pretending everything is fine. But I’m one of extremes. Extremely capable. Extremely strong. Extremely isolated. I might break. But that’s the thing… my capacity for carrying pain is seemingly endless. But I know better than that. I know one day, my knees will give out from carrying all of this pain and I’ll be lying in a pile of my own waste, unable to move.

I know that’s awful. I know I know I know I fucking know!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

But, Dearest Diary, if I cannot express how I’m feeling, I know that’s how I’ll end up. Completely immobile.

Even now I’m struggling. I know I’m writing to you but I know others’ eyes are hovering. I’m alone but the door isn’t shut. It’s what I want, I want to be witnessed. But god is it dreadfully scary to tell the truth.

It’s as though the programming in my mind isn’t capable of anything other than hiding, hiding, hiding.

But I can fantasize. Oh can I fantasize what it feels like to tell the truth. Of walking into a room, of waltzing into a conversation, of speaking my mind without so much as a blink as I brazenly unleash what I want to say exactly as I’ve thought it.

No muzzle. No muzzle.

And this is why I write. I get a glimpse of what it feels like to be un-muted. Witnessed as the real me. Not the version I curate for the world to witness me. What does it feel like to be fully comfortable with expressing yourself? Gods, I crave that as much as I’m terrified by that notion. I cannot fathom actually being brave enough to speak my truth with candor and ease.

I have no frame of reference for what that looks like, much less feels like in my own life. Of course, I can observe it in others… be immensely envious of it in others… but I can’t figure out how to make that be my default. I can’t claim it as my own.

I know people are going to look at me and call me a pathetic victim for wallowing here. Stuck in her own shit. And honestly? I’m starting to not fucking care as much. I’m just trying to figure my shit out while carrying an immense amount of pain and shame on my shoulders. Am I being the victim? I don’t know. But before any motherfuckers try and slap a label on me, they should walk a tenth of a mile in my shoes and then get back to me if they’re still able.

Is that cruel of me to say? Why do I even go there? Why does it matter? What even is cruel? The more I live, the more I wonder if everything is just… neutral in its morality. Nothing is inherently cruel. It just is. But pain? Pain is real. Suffering is real. Or at least my mind’s experiencing of it is.

Ok. Well, my dearest diary. Thank you for bearing witness of what it means to be human as I attempt to untangle the tangles that have had me in their grip for 33 years.

I hope to be back next week, and the week after.

For the thoughts of my mind are so much better expressed then festing in my mind.

And one day, I hope to write to you that I have learned to love myself, truly, completely, wholly. And the thoughts in my mind are no longer strangling me, but uttered with unflinching conviction and a wink for good measure.

Love,

Me

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From the bottom of my tiny tits, thank you for being here. If these words made you feel, it would mean the world if you could tap the lil ‘heart’, leave a comment or share this. 🖤

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