The Things I Can’t Write About

There is much more to my life than what I’m capable of expressing in a blog post. Obviously, there are many little things that comprise my days. And similarly, people, too. I usually only write about people when our interactions are either positive, or I don’t expect to interact with them (meaningfully) ever again. Sometimes, that expectation doesn’t go as planned. I’ve written about someone only to reconnect and learn they actually read what I wrote about them. I never name names or give identifying information, but were you to read an “anonymous” description of something you did (with me, on my own blog), it’s quite straightforward.

There are so many things I want to write about. So many things I want to dissect and analyze, express and make sense of. Profound experiences I long to turn into words. But I can’t. Because the people involved will read those words and see how they have affected me. I have no problem expressing positivity: I had a great message exchange with a good friend yesterday that further solidified my appreciation of her. She can read that line, know it was her, and that’s all great. But when I write about certain actions or interactions that hurt me — deeply — the idea of a close friend reading that, knowing they did it, and seeing my experience of events, I simply cannot write. We can have private conversations, though I wouldn’t want to bring these things up.

I’m good at dealing with my emotions on my own. What’s more important to me, however, is that I don’t think I’m capable of holding anything against anyone or seeing anyone negatively. Thus, when I say I want to write about experiences like how I’ve been hurt by people who are still close to me, it’s nothing more than a desire to look into their minds, look into my own mind, and understand where our worlds meet as well as what that means for me as a human; what the impact means for me in being human. Yet such analysis requires a description of events.

So, I write stories and poetry. A few times, I’ve actually read those pieces to the very people they were about. They had no idea. For example, I wrote the story Truth about my experience with someone. I read it aloud with that person sitting right next to me, not too long after the events. In fact, in my eyes, the entire story is pointless setup: nothing more than necessity to build emphasis for the part that details my own experiences. With it being a personal story, I wouldn’t expect anyone to know what it is truthfully about. Not even the other person involved caught it. Even the theme of the story, truth, came from a conversation we had had in the midst of “the events.”

On that note, I want to express the importance of taking responsibility. When I say that I “cannot” hold negative images of people, it’s a matter of separating what we feel from events themselves. I have written before about the girl whose actions ultimately made me become a writer. She did not make me a writer — as in, she is not responsible for me wanting to write, my ability to write, or my motivation to write. Somewhere within me, unrelated to her, was my “inner writer.” It just so happened that she was the one whose action finally brought it out. I think it’s fair to give credit to her role in that. I did value her for it, and there’s certainly nothing wrong with that. But making the distinction is crucial: between playing a role and being responsible. Only I can ever be responsible in the end for being a writer. Saying that she was entirely responsible would be putting her on a platform and doing a disservice to myself.

Similarly, when she revealed that she had been hiding her boyfriend from me, then told me that everything that happened was my fault and ceased communication, I was beyond hurt. To this day, I think that’s still the most painful experience I’ve ever had. However, my point is that these events hurt me, but she is not responsible for what I felt. She did not directly make me a writer, nor did she directly make me hurt. Rather, it was she who brought something — already existing — out of me. That’s not to say we shouldn’t feel pain or other negative emotions. That’s also not to say we are to blame for them. It means that we are responsible for ourselves: for moving past whatever types of thoughts and feelings, for finding ways to express ourselves, for directing our own lives, for handling life itself. I don’t think negatively of her because I have just described nothing more than my own experiences. She had her own. I cannot know what they were, but if they resulted in the actions she took, then I can only assume things would make sense if I could see into her mind. But we can’t do that. We must work with what we have: ourselves.

I don’t write about so many experiences that I would otherwise like to for that reason. I would never want someone to read about my experience and think I blame them for it. You could argue that I shouldn’t be afraid or make assumptions of how others will react, and my counter argument would be that this is why I write stories and poems. I write what I want to write in my journal; that is private. The world doesn’t need to know what this or that person did and how it made me feel. Instead, I share stories and poems that are the distillations of my life: thoughts, feelings, experiences. That is enough for me.

I’ve had a bad week. Or two or three, really. It culminated yesterday when I finally got access to my new apartment to find out the owner had been letting someone stay there who trashed the place. I’ve spent my entire time in Iceland dreaming of having my own couch. I finally got one. Imagine my feeling of getting my keys — after all I’ve been through — walking up the stairs, and opening the door to a trashed apartment. Hence my wish to write today. It’s being taken care of, I hope, but today’s thoughts come from the question of “Why me?”