The Truth? You Can’t Handle The Truth!

Today has seen me write two blogs, this being the third. For me it seems, writing a blog has a way of opening the floodgates to the truth; to allow those outside to see inside my soul. Writing allows me to expose my feelings and fears. To pinpoint where I am in life, where I want to go, who I want to be.

While it has taken me months to build up the confidence to press ‘Publish’ on a blog post (I have nine unpublished blogs in my draft folder, in varying states of completeness), the overwhelming response I have received from my friends and family has been great. Many have taken the time to give me advice, but mainly just to remind me they are there. I have been moved to tears by this, not that it takes much these days, but just to know that people have faith means a lot. Writing a blog is my way of saying that I have faith in myself, although it may not seem like it from some blog posts you may read. But writing is a release, and I know from personal experience that to keep the truth inside can only lead to an eruption of volcanic proportions, the consequences of such can be long-lasting; taking years to remove the lava and ash that cover everything in its path.


[Picture Credit: Jack Nicholson as Col. Nathan Jessup, A Few Good Men, Dir. Rob Reiner, 1992]

I almost lost one of my closest friends shortly before I left my ex. We used to meet for lunch every few weeks, and she revealed to me after the eruption that was the end of my marriage that I seemed like a stranger. Having ignored her message two days ago until after I wrote Woe is Me, I know that I have been holding back the truth from my friends and family. The truth is, I have a lot of friends. I just don’t have a lot of friends here in London. But my friends, though they are scattered around the world, are always there for me. I know since I moved to London I have hidden away from them. London, and the events since last May have caused me to retreat into my Cancerian shell at an extreme pace. Blink and you’ll miss me.

I don’t know why I feel the need to do this. Perhaps it is because several of my friends from back in Lincoln have told me that it is ok to come home. It’s funny, because even though I was born in Lincoln, I never felt “at home” there. Never felt like I belonged. But then I haven’t felt that way anywhere else in the world either. London is the closest place I have felt that, and when I returned to London for the first time in a few years last October, it did feel like coming home.

For me, moving back to Lincoln is not an option. To do so would feel like going back with my tail between my legs, for the second time. It would feel like admitting defeat.

My FWB (Friend With Benefits) tells me that I should think about moving away from London, since I am obviously not happy here. But, I say to him, where do I go? I have never seen any other city in England as a possibility, and moving to somewhere hot with a beach seems, while tempting, very impossible.

For me, I can’t imagine that place where I want to put down roots. For that place waits for my roots to be entwined with another, before planting them in its fertile soil and building upon solid foundations. But it is very obvious right now that I have no guarantee of when that may happen.

On the tube, I read the adverts that offer fertility to the over 40s, and wonder if I will need it. While my 40th birthday is five years away, I think back five years and those years have flown by. Five years ago, I hadn’t even written anything. I had no idea that I had this ability inside me to pour out my heart and soul, and that people would actually want to read it.

I am grateful for my blog. For it allows me to communicate with those people I know (and those I don’t) about things I otherwise may not say. I am thankful to the family and friends who read and support me through the difficult times. To the new followers I have since I posted Woe Is Me at 9am this morning, welcome. While my blog may be the only way I communicate with some of you these days, know that I am eternally grateful that you are there.


The Twelve-Week Challenge: Day 39

I feel as though time is ticking away, yet I do not know what will come of that time. Today I realised, that if someone else were in my position, I would undoubtably be telling them to go to America for the summer. I would be telling them they are crazy not to go. So why am I not telling myself that?

I wish I could tell you why. I think deep down, I am scared, scared of what I don’t know. It is ironic, but I am one of these people who hate not knowing what is going to happen, and crave routine, whilst enjoying the spontaneity and excitement that can bring. I think in truth, I am scared of missing out, though of what I do not know. I would rather regret things I have done in life, rather than those I have not, yet I seem scared to put my foot forward and say I’m going. I think because I have never felt like I have belonged anywhere, I worry that I may never belong anywhere, and may be forced to wander this earth searching for what cannot be found.

I have until April 1st, which is Tuesday, to decide whether or not to apply to do Work America for the summer. Maybe tomorrow clarification will appear. For now, I am dubious about my trip to London on Tuesday, and wonder whether I should cut it short. Maybe I’m craving the safety of home, wherever that may be.