I wish that I wasn’t so self conscious about showing emotion(s) that might be construed as angst. Lately when I sit down to write things out, to digest them, to attempt to pull out narrative kicking and squirming and a bit bloody … I get that awkward sort of adolescent embarrassment I once felt reading over obviously tear stained teenage diaries. I’m embarrassed by my sensitivity. By my inability to feel at home. By my refusal to admit I’m struggling and sinking, lacking in purpose, lacking in place. I’m embarrassed by my humanity and by my solitude. I do not want to admit that being alone makes me lonely. I do not want to be viewed as anything less than independent and whole. To admit that I have been let down by too many communities, friends, and lovers to rebuild my heart on my own, is difficult. But harder still is creating a space of vulnerability, pockets of safe space in which to nurture a newfound faith in the good in others, the good in myself. Where do you start when there’s no place to plant your feet?
