I’ve been clicking on and off of this browser for the last hour, debating with myself on whether or not I should make things a bit more personal in my posts. That’s not to say that they aren’t already. I want to tear down the walls of insecurity and branch out in a way that I’ve never done before, but something is keeping me from doing so at the moment. It’s a gut wrenching feeling that I don’t normally talk with anyone about because I can resolve it myself. It’s almost like a living parasite attempting to force me to fall deeper into myself, to keep me from saying what I meant to the first time. I have memory problems; I have trouble recalling events from beyond five years ago. I’m not sure, but I believe a psychoanalyst would refer to it as repression were I to stop there with the description. No, my memories don’t haunt me. It’s the lack thereof that does. I’ve been in one car wreck too many, and that just created an entirely new field of issues for me. I wake up at night in cold sweats from dreams that I don’t remember most nights. I keep a journal of the prior day’s events in case I forget where I am. There’s this intense humming that I hear in the back of my mind that’s just begging to drive me insane. The last time I tried to explain this to my family, they laughed at me. I don’t really try to talk to them about personal issues anymore, because all I receive is a laugh. I’m pretty sure that’s akin to a slap in the face.
I probably cry a lot more often than I should because of these things. That’s just me; I wear my heart on my sleeve. I’m broken in more places than one, but I continue on and try to make sense of what’s happening to me. Maybe one day the memories will come rushing back to me. Until then I’ll just try to make the best of a strange situation.