Read me like an open book.

Woke up with an aching heart today.

I wish I could say this is out of the norm, but I would be lying.

A couple months ago I woke up on a pillow full of tears crying for what seemed like hours. It was rather disconcerting.

 

 

I miss my life back in London. I miss my friends, and having people to confide in and talk to. Living alone for the first time in years without my partner in a new city where everybody is a stranger has been extremely isolating to say the least. I’ve spent most of my days indoors becoming far more recluse than ever.

 

As an extroverted individual that thrives on social interactions, this has been challenging. Spending this period of time alone has given me space to start analysing my past, present and future. Sometimes I spend too much time in my head, which isn’t healthy.

 

On the brighter side, I’ve become comfortable sharing my writing with other people because when you’re all alone and the rhetoric inside your mind begins to drive you crazy, it’s easier to let it out by writing. I’ve been able to explore myself and spend more time writing than ever before because I spend so much time in solitude lately.

 

I’ve always opened up to people more than I should. I suppose this is something strange that most people don’t do. I lack the thick filter that most people apply to themselves. I also have a hard time glossing everything over and pretending that everything is okay when it isn’t. This is something that I learned from my mother. She couldn’t care less about what anybody had to say about her. She had no filter, which was pretty painful at times. She always told me way more information that I wanted to know about her. I realise this sense of openness can be abrasive, so I try my best to not be hurtful.

 

Being as open as I am is something that a few friends have warned me about. They’ve told me that the amount of information that I tell people about myself is dangerous. I’ve been told that I shouldn’t talk as much and be more mysterious… leave something to the imagination. I’ve been told to not share too much about my upbringing. I’ve been told to not discuss my feelings so openly. I’ve been told that it’s better to just be quiet. That’s not really me though. If I was a quiet and shy person, that would be a completely different story. It seems as though these are the characteristics that young women are supposed to adhere to. Our patriarchal society wants women to be quiet and look nice. We’re seen as objects to looked at and not be heard. We’re expected to be voiceless supporting characters that lack opinions and thoughts that look attractive while supporting the main act in the story, a white male in most cases. So I don’t really care if I’m not alluring enough to some people. I read like an open book.

 

Hopefully this personality trait is something that’s going to help me with my writing in the future. I think that the first time that it dawned to me that I should start a blog was in 2008. Myspace started allowing it’s users to see how many people were reading my bulletin posts. I was really surprised, as I thought I was throwing my short stories, thoughts and poetry into a virtual abyss that nobody bothered reading. I made a blog, but didn’t feel comfortable sharing this blog with people that knew me in person. After a year I let it go, as my passion for writing poetry and short stories diminished after heart break that led to severe depression.

 

It’s been really nice to get back into writing and I find it rather therapeutic since I can hide behind my computer screen instead of facing another person. I know this opens me up to a much wider range of criticism. It’s almost worse than sharing information about myself with somebody that I meet out here on the harsh streets of New York City. People here are far more rude and judgemental than anywhere I’ve ever lived. It’s toughened me up and taught me to stop caring so much about what people say or think about me. The best aspect of ageing is that I’m learning to not care so much about what other people think.

 

I’m going to start publishing a lot of the posts that I started and never finished or decided to not publish due to my social anxiety and fear of what people think. If you don’t like them, or feel that it’s self-absorbed to share as much about my life as I do, don’t read them. Keep scrolling and carry on. If you like my posts or relate in any way, let me know so I keep going with this project and don’t abandon it like the many other projects I’ve started but haven’t finished. I hope you enjoy reading the following series that follows my life since I left America for a better life.

 

One thought on “Read me like an open book.

  1. I can relate because the more I get older I realize that not everyone is genuine about making friendships as me. When I meet someone it’s to truly get to know them as a person, likes, dislikes,hope and fears. I’ve found that many are only interested in making friends with others for vain reasons like making them look good or because you have something that is of use to them. It’s hard not to just close off after people you have opened yourself up to use those things against you when the friendships/relationship is over. I’ve decided that instead of changing who I am so that I am more conscious about what I say or do in front of others instead I just need to be better at vetting the people in my life.

    Liked by 1 person

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