bitterdiva

IV

It's been four years since I took that baby step of blogging, a means to an end of all my bitching. In retrospect, I've become more internal, too wrapped up in the chaos that Discordia has provided me. Lost friends, gained friends. Gained a roommate, lost a roommate. Still continue on my path of academia. Still very shy. Especially when it comes to new experiences and situations.

Four years.

People who were in college when I started are no longer there. Except for me, and Mr. Kris. He'll be leaving as a payer and joining as a payee (hopefully).

I contemplated for a brief moment deleting all entries as a cathartic cleansing. But four years of archives is too much to remove with only thirty seconds of thought given to it. They'll remain, maybe for another day, month, or four years.

When I started blogging, I was angry and bitter at the dissolution of a relationship that I had by no means getting into. It wasn't him, it was me; I was in a bad place and clearly not thinking. I wanted a mother, someone to watch over me and take care of me even if they were 300 miles away. My mother is only 150. I still want someone to take care of me.

For most of my life, I have felt alone, having practically raised myself. I went to college, 150 miles away, and had to take care of myself. I dated someone and had to take care of him and myself. And now, with my wedding this year, I have people around me trying to take care of me and I don't know how to just let go and allow it. I have problems letting go and allowing things just to happen as they do. I hold grudges against people from 20 years ago. Grudges that I want to let go.

I let people go easily, I shouldn't. I let people go easier than I let grudges. I let people go easier than I let a three-year-old vacuous post go. I have an intimate connection with that post, it may contain the most trivial of information but it's mine, I gave birth to it, and I cannot take it out of this digital world. Words, sentences, entries, pages, all are silent but they speak volumes to my heart.

Blogging provided me with a medium to just bitch, something that I excel at. I can be given an object and come up with a five-minute soliloquy about its bane of existence to myself. I've attempted to move away from bitching, to focus on myself, but I don't really do this for people to know what's going on with me. I don't like attention. That's why I mesh well in a crowd; I sit and listen, analyzing everything that is being said. I make an effort to remember everything that is said to me. I try to make what people have to say the most important thing in that moment. I remember too much at times. Others forget easier than me. I can't remember faces, but I remember conversations. Words strung together like Christmas lights decorating the walls in my mind. Sometimes they're colored, sometimes they're monochromatic, but they decorate my mind brilliantly like one of my photos of Christmas in Albany.

I need structure, I need topics, I need a reason to sit down at my computer and just let go and allow my mind to think and my fingers to capture it. I shiver. I shiver and chatter from the cold in the apartment and the contemplative climax building in my body. Once all of my literary fuel is expunged from my body, I retreat to my bed exhaustively; praying that for one night, sleep will bring me no dreams, no nightmares, just darkness until I force myself into the hot shower, wiping the crust out of my eyes.

Four long years of creativity, of typing, of images, dreams, of conversations, of love, of hate, of fear, of friends, of enemies, of life, and of death. I am grateful for my blog and I am grateful for that thirty-first second where I clicked the x and not the delete all button.

12:00 AM