I’m at Borders right now, waiting for the other debate people to show up, catching up on the blog. I wrote and posted yesterday’s and today’s teeshirt week blogs, and then drafted tomorrow’s. Then I wrote a short journal entry and updated my Facebook and Twitter. Now I’m staring at my computer, feeling like I’m not done.
I can’t write in Eugenia because I left the last part in a journal at home and because I’m just not feeling it right now. I can’t write in any of my other books because two are at a possibly permanent stopping point and the other I’m terrified of screwing up. I’m exhausted and yet I’ve never felt so inspired.
But I can’t write the things that I really want to write, partially because I don’t like bursting into tears in public places and partially because people read this blog that I want to write about. Those documents will remain inside the bowels of my MacBook, never to see the light of publication.
So what can I write? What will I write? And why am I posting it on my website?
I don’t know about the first two questions, but I have a theory about the last one. I’ve gotten used to pouring out my soul on this blog, even before the project. It makes me feel… heard if I post my thoughts on the internet. And I’ve spent so much time working and reworking this website that it’s a shame to not use it.
And that makes me think. 71 days left of this project, so what next? What will I do after my mandatory year is up? This project didn’t generate the amount of readers I had originally hoped, even with my determination to see this year out with a clear head and interesting posts. But I don’t want to let Bri’s Own World die, not after four years. It’s like a child to me. It’s got everything that’s important to me; writing, music, video, politics, friends, and technology. It is a conglomeration of everything I care about, everything that I’ve ever been interested in, everything that I’ve ever wanted out of life.
So what to do? What to reach for? What’s next?
I’m not sure. It’s way too stressful to post every day, so that idea is out. But I’m hoping to be able to post twice to three times a week. My first year of college is bound to be busy, but if I can post every day after a year like this, I can do pretty much anything. I’ll try to keep to weekly videos, even if my roommate things I’m insane, and hopefully there will still be fiction and poetry to satiate my need for creativity.
College. I hope it meets my expectations, but I’m terrified that it won’t. What if I hate it? What if, even after I’ve spent years making myself presentable, people still don’t like me?
See, I think that’s at the core of almost all of my prevailing emotional issues. And it started in elementary school.
It wasn’t just Zach who bullied me, although he was the worst. There was Christian, Max, and Jeremy too. And random handfuls of other people, too. The first couple times someone tells you you’re fat, or ugly, or useless, you hold you head high and laugh. But after a while, you start to believe it. And after years and years of hearing the same taunts, you stop believing it and start becoming consumed by it.
Regardless of what everyone may think, my self esteem is just as low as it was when I wrote poems about the color black in 7th grade. There are still moments were I absolutely hate myself, or something I’ve done. I may look more put together on the outside; you can thank makeup and a better understanding of fashion for that. But on the inside, I’m still that codependent, awkward ten-year-old, and I always will be.
I act domineering and angry because it’s easier for people to think you’re mean than for them to think you’re useless. I’m sarcastic because that’s the only kind of humor that can sustain me long enough to get home and cry. I act cocky about my ability to debate and to write because those are the only things I’ve ever been affirmed to doing well for longer than a week. I’m loud because I’m terrified of not being heard.
I’ve stopped talking to nearly everyone I’ve gone to school with, not because I don’t like them, or at least not most of them, but because they represent the worst times of my life. They represent all the heartbreak and the panic attacks and the worthlessness and the loneliness. And I can’t handle that. I have to move on with my life, otherwise I’ll end up staying here in this little Colorado town forever, wallowing in the self-pity that has become my constant companion.
I don’t want to be sad anymore. I want the decently attractive exterior to reflect my calamity on the inside. I hate being angry, and I hate the way it affects my family, my friends, and myself. I hate the constant guilt, I hate feeling like I’m alone in the world even though I know I’m not. I have the most amazing friends in the entire world, I have no reason to be lonely. But I am. And the empty feeling in the pit of my stomach I carry around like an extra organ just reflects this.
I have no idea what I want. I don’t know what will make me happy, or secure. All I know is that something needs to change. I started this project to find inner peace, and although it’s been incredibly enlightening and educational, I haven’t reached that goal yet. I have 71 days to try and finish the original intent of Bri 2.0, and hopefully the growing distance between me and public education will help. But I don’t know. You can never know.
I’ve been here for almost two hours now, and I’m starting to think so one is going to show up. But that’s not new.
