Yesterday, I came back to my blog for the first time in several months. Since my last entries, I have visited very occasionally, but I never took the opportunity to actually write something new. Each time I visit, I look, startled and amazed, at all that I created two years ago. I think about how keeping this blog was a unique and special experience; I think about how much the experience meant to me as I moved through my senior year. I think about how this blog gave me a vehicle to write for myself, to find my voice not as a student but as a person, a writer. And I think, with a touch of sadness, about how I rarely take the time to write for myself anymore, about how I miss it.
I think about how I miss it. But I never actually do it; I never actually open a notebook and begin.
But god, I miss it. I miss the feeling of words constantly lining up in my head, ideas anxiously awaiting their chance to be articulated. I miss the ease with which they flowed from my fingers, whether it was through a pencil or the click-clack of a keyboard. I miss how natural writing these entries felt, how once I started, even when I was unsure of where I would end up, my thoughts would take me to somewhere ultimately new and exciting. I miss the feeling of pressing "publish" on an entry that had particularly helped me articulate something new, the feeling of knowing that my words were floating in cyberspace to speak to anybody who was willing to listen. I even miss the feeling of uncertainty that anybody would read it at all, but perhaps this is because I also miss the feeling of not really caring one way or another. I didn't care because I knew that I was ultimately writing for me.
How can two years have gone by since I truly put forth effort to write in this blog? How can time slip through my fingers so quickly without me realizing it is happening? How can I spend two years thinking about how I much I miss the feeling of writing for myself and never actually do it? I look through my entries and I recognize the voice that wrote them. I remember being that voice. But how can I be that same girl after two years have passed, after I have started so many new chapters in my life that I can scarcely even count them?
I feel as though I have missed a valuable opportunity to do the very thing that I found myself obsessing over while I was writing in this blog: preservation. The months that I have spent not writing have swept in a wave of changes through my life. Had I written consistently throughout those months, I might have crystallized the precious and fragile process of becoming the person that sits here typing this entry.
I'm sure this isn't a loss that the world at large will feel, but I still feel it within myself all the same. But even more than that, it makes my heart heavy to think about how many times I wished I could feel the rush of words through my fingertips once more, and how many times I neglected to seize the opportunity to make that happen.
I suppose I cannot say that I have gone the last two years without writing for myself at all. In addition to making me see the world through a different lens and making me more comfortable with spontaneous discourse, this blog made me realize something else. It made me realize that there was always, always, at least one person I could count on to read my entries. And, in a way, it sort of nudged me toward, or perhaps planted the seeds for the realization that my gratitude and love for his consideration and loyalty was transforming into love for him. It's almost as though writing has become symbolic of our relationship, because a blogging kinship eventually turned into a letter containing three words nobody has ever said to me before, which in turn eventually became an entire summer of writing letters to bridge the gap created by geography.
I am realizing now that my writing found a way to exist even when I was not writing in this blog. My love letters to writing became my love letters to John. This relationship has facilitated my act of writing even in the absence of blogging, and for that, I am so grateful. Two years have not slipped through my fingers in the way my presence on this blog might suggest, and this is because a great deal of this has been spent building something as awesome and important as the person with whom I am building it.
I want to be better. I don't want to lose sight of the things that I love in the clutches of laziness or business or forgetfulness. I want to do things that make me feel real, like this blog once did. The biggest difference between two years ago and now, however, is that I have so many more things that help me do this. I have a boy that I love, a college that teaches me new things every day, and a swim team that makes me feel like I am part of something much bigger than just myself. I cannot speak for certain about the future of this blog, but I can say I hope I never find myself settling for anything less than feeling real and alive and important, anything less than doing (actually doing) the things that I love.
And god, do I love writing.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Thursday, November 3, 2011
a seeming void becomes a solid ground
When I revisited my blog last week, I read my posts again. Experiencing my thoughts backwards, remembering the nuances of time during which I was writing, I walked through the fifty posts I had created months earlier, and I was, frankly, weirded out. So much of the stuff I reread I had simply forgotten that I'd written -- some of the insights that I had made resonated within me almost as if they were new. Of course, there was an element of nostalgia, of familiarity, because at one point, those ideas had belonged to me as I experienced them, and yet when I read them once more, months later, I was startled by the novelty they seemed to have.
When do the thoughts and ideas we have cease to be ours? I'd like to think that because I have thought something beautiful, because at one point I felt so compelled by an idea that I wrote about it, the idea has changed the material that makes up me in some way. But what about the moment when you realize you've forgotten about something that once moved you enough to capture it in a blog, or on paper, or to a friend? What about the moment you realize you've forgotten something only because when you encounter it once more, it feels foreign?
It's a scary feeling, realizing you've forgotten something, especially something that once made your heart skip with weight and importance. Really, it's enough to make me feel stick to my stomach -- because ultimately, when that happens to me, what I am feeling (or at least scraping the surface of) is the sense that an idea nearly slipped away from me. It nearly ceased to belong to me.
It is strange to feel in the pit of my stomach like I am learning something from myself. The experience of reliving my blog one year later is, as I have realized, pretty much the closest possible way for me to experience my blog as an outsider, something whose perspective I have struggled to perceive my whole life. But am I reading my own words, or am I reading those of the girl I was one year ago? The events described happened to me, the words on the page are all ones that my fingers typed, but do the thoughts still belong to me even if I have changed, forgotten their nuances and details?
Does it even matter, in the end, that I struggle to perceive the ideas that other people have about me? If I am not the same person I was when I wrote my blog entries all those months ago, if I can experience them almost as an outsider who is learning, remembering, something that feels new, then how can the opinion of others in general be relevant in any way? Those opinions, like the nuanced thoughts in my blog, can be forgotten. Perhaps the perception that one person has of me is ephemeral -- not just because thoughts are ephemeral, but because I am ephemeral.
Perhaps the thoughts I wrote in my blog were "mine" because it was my brain that thought them up, but it's not them changing or being forgotten in my mind that would make them cease to be mine. Perhaps it is simply the changing of the person who has these thoughts, the person I am. This blog can capture, take a snapshot of more than just my thoughts and ideas. It can take a snapshot of the person -- the precious, ephemeral, tumultuous person I am at one given moment in time.
Thinking like that, going through my old posts seems less like a scary, surreal experience of remembering how much I've forgotten, and more like a trip through a museum filled with precious, lovely, one-of-a-kind versions of my ever-changing self.
Suddenly, the experience feels so much more beautiful.
When do the thoughts and ideas we have cease to be ours? I'd like to think that because I have thought something beautiful, because at one point I felt so compelled by an idea that I wrote about it, the idea has changed the material that makes up me in some way. But what about the moment when you realize you've forgotten about something that once moved you enough to capture it in a blog, or on paper, or to a friend? What about the moment you realize you've forgotten something only because when you encounter it once more, it feels foreign?
It's a scary feeling, realizing you've forgotten something, especially something that once made your heart skip with weight and importance. Really, it's enough to make me feel stick to my stomach -- because ultimately, when that happens to me, what I am feeling (or at least scraping the surface of) is the sense that an idea nearly slipped away from me. It nearly ceased to belong to me.
It is strange to feel in the pit of my stomach like I am learning something from myself. The experience of reliving my blog one year later is, as I have realized, pretty much the closest possible way for me to experience my blog as an outsider, something whose perspective I have struggled to perceive my whole life. But am I reading my own words, or am I reading those of the girl I was one year ago? The events described happened to me, the words on the page are all ones that my fingers typed, but do the thoughts still belong to me even if I have changed, forgotten their nuances and details?
Does it even matter, in the end, that I struggle to perceive the ideas that other people have about me? If I am not the same person I was when I wrote my blog entries all those months ago, if I can experience them almost as an outsider who is learning, remembering, something that feels new, then how can the opinion of others in general be relevant in any way? Those opinions, like the nuanced thoughts in my blog, can be forgotten. Perhaps the perception that one person has of me is ephemeral -- not just because thoughts are ephemeral, but because I am ephemeral.
Perhaps the thoughts I wrote in my blog were "mine" because it was my brain that thought them up, but it's not them changing or being forgotten in my mind that would make them cease to be mine. Perhaps it is simply the changing of the person who has these thoughts, the person I am. This blog can capture, take a snapshot of more than just my thoughts and ideas. It can take a snapshot of the person -- the precious, ephemeral, tumultuous person I am at one given moment in time.
Thinking like that, going through my old posts seems less like a scary, surreal experience of remembering how much I've forgotten, and more like a trip through a museum filled with precious, lovely, one-of-a-kind versions of my ever-changing self.
Suddenly, the experience feels so much more beautiful.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
like a fist, or a flower
"And then a thought came into my brain that wasn’t like the other thoughts. It was closer to me, and louder. I didn’t know where it came from, or what it meant, or if I loved it or hated it. It opened up like a fist, or a flower." -- Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
Today, something inside of me bloomed. Perhaps that is ironic, considering the world that is dying beautifully before my eyes; nonetheless, as the leaves turn red and gold and brown and tango with gravity to the earth, something within my chest is exploding in bloom, an entirely different kind of beautiful.
I am not sure what these blossoms look like, but I know they are lovely, because how could they not be? Anything growing, bursting into existence from nothing, speckling a barren landscape with miraculous punctuation, is bound to be beautiful.
Where did these blossoms come from? Did something plant the seeds inside of me? -- were they planted, lying dormant inside me, all along? Perhaps this is only the rebirth of something that had lost its petals long ago.
In a sense, I think that must be accurate, because I think part of what is blooming is my desire to create, to record my thoughts, to write in this blog once more. My last post marked the beginning of a very busy and complicated time of my life -- the most important two months of the swim season hand me at a championship meet nearly every weekend; following that, I had a lot of end-of-the year work to do, not to mention making one of the biggest decisions of my life thus far, choosing where I was going to go to college.
To be completely honest, though, I think the biggest reason I stopped blogging is because I lost momentum. I got busy, I got stressed, I had more important things to do and think about. And because it's so easy to not do things, I never really started back up once all of those things had passed.
Part of me is disappointed in myself, because I think a lot of transformative things happened in the months I was not blogging that I would have liked to document as they were happening. Obviously, for many of them, I can do my best to write in retrospect, but that is a different type of writing in itself. Part of what is lovely about blogging is that it preserves who you are, what you are feeling at the exact moment in time you are writing, and I would have liked to preserve that transformation truly and candidly.
I guess, though, there is not much I can do about those lost opportunities to write in the moment at the end of my senior year and throughout the summer. All I can do is try to remember, record how I feel about them now, start preserving myself once more.
Part of me is disappointed in myself, because I think a lot of transformative things happened in the months I was not blogging that I would have liked to document as they were happening. Obviously, for many of them, I can do my best to write in retrospect, but that is a different type of writing in itself. Part of what is lovely about blogging is that it preserves who you are, what you are feeling at the exact moment in time you are writing, and I would have liked to preserve that transformation truly and candidly.
I guess, though, there is not much I can do about those lost opportunities to write in the moment at the end of my senior year and throughout the summer. All I can do is try to remember, record how I feel about them now, start preserving myself once more.
In any case, it is nice to be back. I may not know what the blossoms of my desire to return look like, or when they were planted -- all I know is that in the end, they have come from me. And, for now, that is the most important thing I can realize.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
au printemps
I used to think that I didn't have a favorite season. When I was little, I was compelled to claim winter as my own, because after all, winter wrapped Christmas and stockings and carols and my birthday all into one stretch of months. But then there was summer, all sun and heat and sweat and tan skin amidst the shining absence of schoolwork -- how could I not enjoy the leisure time that was so blatantly missing from my usual life? And then there was autumn, when a new school year was still fresh and exciting, when the leaves turned red and gold and orange, when I could practically hear the announcer of a high school football game in the back of my head at all times. Autumn, when I welcomed in the crisp, rustic air to replace the thick, humid lethargy of August, when I marveled at the sudden beauty of the world that surrounded me.
But how can I explain the feeling of truly seeing the sun for the first time in months, feeling its rays caress your skin like a kiss from a long-lost lover? How can I explain the feeling of stepping outside and feeling as if nothing in the world can be wrong, the connotations of the warmth stirring excitement for the things to come in the pit of your stomach? How can I explain the feeling of the air greeting you with an embrace rather than the cold bite of iciness? How can I explain the way that the heavy layers of stress peel away from your body to reveal something both vulnerable and anxious to emerge the moment that the smell of spring tickles your nose?
I don't think words could ever adequately explain the way that spring makes me feel, nor why it is that the more springs that I experience, the more certain I become that it is in this season that my loyalty belongs. I think the only thing that could possibly explain that for me is feeling the first rays of sun, seeing the first strokes of lovely blue sky, smelling the air that is thick with new life and promise, for yourself.
I hope you feel new, just like I do.
But how can I explain the feeling of truly seeing the sun for the first time in months, feeling its rays caress your skin like a kiss from a long-lost lover? How can I explain the feeling of stepping outside and feeling as if nothing in the world can be wrong, the connotations of the warmth stirring excitement for the things to come in the pit of your stomach? How can I explain the feeling of the air greeting you with an embrace rather than the cold bite of iciness? How can I explain the way that the heavy layers of stress peel away from your body to reveal something both vulnerable and anxious to emerge the moment that the smell of spring tickles your nose?
I don't think words could ever adequately explain the way that spring makes me feel, nor why it is that the more springs that I experience, the more certain I become that it is in this season that my loyalty belongs. I think the only thing that could possibly explain that for me is feeling the first rays of sun, seeing the first strokes of lovely blue sky, smelling the air that is thick with new life and promise, for yourself.
I hope you feel new, just like I do.
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| photo via valeriemonthuit @ deviantart |
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
you were waking, day was breaking
A little over one year ago, I was unhappy. Not an "I'm in a bad mood" unhappy, or a "I had an unfortunate day" unhappy -- the kind of unhappy that made me forget things. That made me forget what it was like to feel a smile right down to the tips of my toes for more than a fleeting instant, what it was like to truly feel confident and comfortable and beautiful. It was the kind of unhappy signified not by one dark storm cloud that loomed temporarily over my head, but rather the total absence of sunlight.
I guess I am thinking about this because it was around this time last year that I emerged from the depths of this unhappiness, suddenly and somewhat unexpectedly. The winter of my junior year was marked by stress, self-loathing, and this persistent unhappiness; I slipped, along with the temperature, into my blackening surroundings. I have never thought of myself as a low-self-esteem girl, someone with no confidence or assurance who spends most of their time feeling unworthy and unappreciated. But the absurd contrast between feeling that unflagging winter's unhappiness and the joy and contentment that suddenly became a part of my life when I let go of my self-loathing felt, to me, as if I had been plunging without realizing it into the depths of something dark and frightening and had miraculously emerged, gratefully gasping the happiness and sunlight that I had been missing for so long.
But the stark contrast between joy and self-consciousness made me realize something strange: I hadn't even realized I was forgetting what it was like to feel happy. I hadn't realized how long it had been since I'd truly not worried about the person I was being subordinate to what I thought it should be. And as I emerged, I savored every single breath of happiness as if it were precious. Because, I suppose, it was precious, and it continues to be precious, even now. I can't say that I have spent the entire past year without once slipping into self-consciousness or pity, but I have never returned to the depths of where I was last winter.
Maybe it isn't going very far away from home that makes you realize just how far you have traveled -- maybe it is returning to the place you belong, coming back. Because if you are slipping away from the person you are gradually, how can you possibly realize it until it's too late? And how can you possibly appreciate the distance you have traveled, the hell you have faced, before you have come full circle?
I guess I just believe in the importance of remembering who you are. Because if you forget gradually enough, you might not even realize that it is happening. You can only stop yourself if you have someone or something to pull you out of the depths of unhappiness or self-loathing, but it's important to remember that sometimes, the only person who has that ability is you.
I guess I am thinking about this because it was around this time last year that I emerged from the depths of this unhappiness, suddenly and somewhat unexpectedly. The winter of my junior year was marked by stress, self-loathing, and this persistent unhappiness; I slipped, along with the temperature, into my blackening surroundings. I have never thought of myself as a low-self-esteem girl, someone with no confidence or assurance who spends most of their time feeling unworthy and unappreciated. But the absurd contrast between feeling that unflagging winter's unhappiness and the joy and contentment that suddenly became a part of my life when I let go of my self-loathing felt, to me, as if I had been plunging without realizing it into the depths of something dark and frightening and had miraculously emerged, gratefully gasping the happiness and sunlight that I had been missing for so long.
But the stark contrast between joy and self-consciousness made me realize something strange: I hadn't even realized I was forgetting what it was like to feel happy. I hadn't realized how long it had been since I'd truly not worried about the person I was being subordinate to what I thought it should be. And as I emerged, I savored every single breath of happiness as if it were precious. Because, I suppose, it was precious, and it continues to be precious, even now. I can't say that I have spent the entire past year without once slipping into self-consciousness or pity, but I have never returned to the depths of where I was last winter.
Maybe it isn't going very far away from home that makes you realize just how far you have traveled -- maybe it is returning to the place you belong, coming back. Because if you are slipping away from the person you are gradually, how can you possibly realize it until it's too late? And how can you possibly appreciate the distance you have traveled, the hell you have faced, before you have come full circle?
I guess I just believe in the importance of remembering who you are. Because if you forget gradually enough, you might not even realize that it is happening. You can only stop yourself if you have someone or something to pull you out of the depths of unhappiness or self-loathing, but it's important to remember that sometimes, the only person who has that ability is you.
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| photo via anjali @ deviantart |
Monday, January 31, 2011
we are all our hands and holders
On Saturday, I competed in my last league championship meet. My last CHLs ever. I suppose I don't really blog about this type of event very often, this sort of specific post about an event in my life (especially something swimming-related, considering I'm usually just going through the motions when it comes to meets), but this meet brought me back to the idea of last-things.
It's true that I have had my last first day of school, my last first semester, my last floatbuilding, my last fall homecoming. But I haven't really had any lasts regarding swimming, and so it's strange for this to happen and for me to look back on something I've been a part of for four years and see that it's coming to an end.
My freshman year, we were so much better than the other high schools in our league that we could make CHL champion t-shirts without worrying about someone else pulling ahead for the win. My sophomore year, however, we won the meet by one point, and my junior year, we lost. This year, we managed to win, but a team that for the past three years has flown under the radar took second place instead of our usual competitors.
It is all very interesting to look back on because I don't think that as a team we have gotten considerably worse or better. Yes, we have lost a few key swimmers through my four years, but honestly, the same could have been expected from all the other teams, and we have swimmers who have stepped up to maintain our success. It has been such an interesting four years, and yet I haven't realized until just now how amazing it is that we adjust to each year's team, find a new balance between us, and try so hard for success.
I can remember years where we have lost key swimmers and have wondered what in the world we were going to do the next year without them -- and yet each year, we have somehow pulled through; we have somehow fostered a bond among ourselves and been what I would definitely call successful. And I guess that says something not only about my high school team but about people in general: that we learn how to adjust. We cover our weak areas, are thankful for our strengths. We look to our friends and teammates for support, and they help us cope.
In a way, I am happy to have had my last league meet turn out the way it did. I did not place individually as well as I have in the past years, but my times were not considerably worse -- the competition was simply faster. And as I approach State feeling the pressure to repeat a third state championship, I am trying my best to feel calm, because all I can do is swim fast. All I can do is swim a time that I am happy with. If a fast freshman's best happens to be better than mine, then all I can know and understand is that I've done my very best to adjust to the circumstances, and no matter what, my team will be there to high-five me afterward.
It may have taken me four years to realize that, but it brings me so much peace to understand.
It's true that I have had my last first day of school, my last first semester, my last floatbuilding, my last fall homecoming. But I haven't really had any lasts regarding swimming, and so it's strange for this to happen and for me to look back on something I've been a part of for four years and see that it's coming to an end.
My freshman year, we were so much better than the other high schools in our league that we could make CHL champion t-shirts without worrying about someone else pulling ahead for the win. My sophomore year, however, we won the meet by one point, and my junior year, we lost. This year, we managed to win, but a team that for the past three years has flown under the radar took second place instead of our usual competitors.
It is all very interesting to look back on because I don't think that as a team we have gotten considerably worse or better. Yes, we have lost a few key swimmers through my four years, but honestly, the same could have been expected from all the other teams, and we have swimmers who have stepped up to maintain our success. It has been such an interesting four years, and yet I haven't realized until just now how amazing it is that we adjust to each year's team, find a new balance between us, and try so hard for success.
I can remember years where we have lost key swimmers and have wondered what in the world we were going to do the next year without them -- and yet each year, we have somehow pulled through; we have somehow fostered a bond among ourselves and been what I would definitely call successful. And I guess that says something not only about my high school team but about people in general: that we learn how to adjust. We cover our weak areas, are thankful for our strengths. We look to our friends and teammates for support, and they help us cope.
In a way, I am happy to have had my last league meet turn out the way it did. I did not place individually as well as I have in the past years, but my times were not considerably worse -- the competition was simply faster. And as I approach State feeling the pressure to repeat a third state championship, I am trying my best to feel calm, because all I can do is swim fast. All I can do is swim a time that I am happy with. If a fast freshman's best happens to be better than mine, then all I can know and understand is that I've done my very best to adjust to the circumstances, and no matter what, my team will be there to high-five me afterward.
It may have taken me four years to realize that, but it brings me so much peace to understand.
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| photo by Tyler |
Thursday, January 27, 2011
i remember every sound it made
I've been thinking recently about audience. I have been discovering more and more that there are actually people out there that read this. Who enjoy this. And while that may very well be the most fulfilling notion of my entire life so far -- that people are reading my thoughts and experiences and being prompted to think about their own -- it's still a little disturbing to have to realize (and reconcile) the fact that this is a blog. With my name attached to it. That anyone -- anyone! -- can stumble upon.
I'm honestly not so worried about strangers reading this (it's not like I put anything deeply personal on here that could seriously compromise my safety) as much as I am about people that I know. I wouldn't by any means prefer for a bunch of faceless strangers to read my writing than for people I love and care about to do so, because showing my thoughts to people I know may enrich their understanding of me as a person. But at the same time, it's disconcerting to think that this understanding of me could actually be warped by what I write. Or, even worse, they could feel personally attacked or offended by my thoughts.
Though I have learned to not blog when I am very angry at a specific person, especially if my anger cannot be harnessed in a positive, introspective way, and though I have learned that having an audience is one thing that keeps me writing again and again, I still find myself disconcerted by the thought of my mother reading even the briefest mention of the awkward New Year's experience I had (too complicated to explain to anybody, let alone a parent), or the occasional profane word that slips out through my natural voice. I find myself disconcerted by the thought of my friend's mother reading even a subtle detail of my tone that undermines her opinion of me. Or my swim coach stumbling upon a post that expresses my frustration with the sport. My English teacher even came across my blog and read a post in which I specifically referred to a paper that I wrote in her class. Not that I would have done this, because that was neither the point of the entry nor how I actually feel, but I could have easily written something denouncing the assignment or even the class in general. I could have easily -- even subconsciously -- carried in my tone a morsel of condescension or contempt.
If I had other things to say, I could have been a scandal rather than a girl whose unique endeavor to keep a blog is commendable. If I had let the power of writing publicly get to my head, I could have been the bitchy girl who trash-talks an authority figure or friend on a public online journal. It scares me to think that I do have power within these words. I do have the power to make people think and reflect and I have the power to show people who I am. But I also have the power to inadvertently wound, whether it be others or their opinions of me.
I guess I've just been thinking lately about the elements of myself that I cannot control on a blog with the same intricacy that I do to each person I meet. If my mom stumbles upon my blog, she is reading the same words that a high schooler would, even if these are words that I am so accustomed to being able to manipulate in person in order to be the person she expects me to be. While taking my audience into account helps me to think about things I have to say that might have a widespread appeal, there is also an element of blog-keeping that doesn't allow me to take into account very specific audiences that have an opinion of me that I'd like to maintain, like parents or teachers or coaches.
So this is a disturbing concept, not being able to have complete control of what I share with people on an intricate, individual level, but perhaps it also urges me to think about the impression I give on a more general level. Perhaps it allows me to think about -- and become comfortable with -- the person I am willing to show anybody, the person I am proud to be, regardless of which audience I am speaking to.
Perhaps, in a way, this is helping to free me from the confines of the various versions of myself that exist.
I'm honestly not so worried about strangers reading this (it's not like I put anything deeply personal on here that could seriously compromise my safety) as much as I am about people that I know. I wouldn't by any means prefer for a bunch of faceless strangers to read my writing than for people I love and care about to do so, because showing my thoughts to people I know may enrich their understanding of me as a person. But at the same time, it's disconcerting to think that this understanding of me could actually be warped by what I write. Or, even worse, they could feel personally attacked or offended by my thoughts.
Though I have learned to not blog when I am very angry at a specific person, especially if my anger cannot be harnessed in a positive, introspective way, and though I have learned that having an audience is one thing that keeps me writing again and again, I still find myself disconcerted by the thought of my mother reading even the briefest mention of the awkward New Year's experience I had (too complicated to explain to anybody, let alone a parent), or the occasional profane word that slips out through my natural voice. I find myself disconcerted by the thought of my friend's mother reading even a subtle detail of my tone that undermines her opinion of me. Or my swim coach stumbling upon a post that expresses my frustration with the sport. My English teacher even came across my blog and read a post in which I specifically referred to a paper that I wrote in her class. Not that I would have done this, because that was neither the point of the entry nor how I actually feel, but I could have easily written something denouncing the assignment or even the class in general. I could have easily -- even subconsciously -- carried in my tone a morsel of condescension or contempt.
If I had other things to say, I could have been a scandal rather than a girl whose unique endeavor to keep a blog is commendable. If I had let the power of writing publicly get to my head, I could have been the bitchy girl who trash-talks an authority figure or friend on a public online journal. It scares me to think that I do have power within these words. I do have the power to make people think and reflect and I have the power to show people who I am. But I also have the power to inadvertently wound, whether it be others or their opinions of me.
I guess I've just been thinking lately about the elements of myself that I cannot control on a blog with the same intricacy that I do to each person I meet. If my mom stumbles upon my blog, she is reading the same words that a high schooler would, even if these are words that I am so accustomed to being able to manipulate in person in order to be the person she expects me to be. While taking my audience into account helps me to think about things I have to say that might have a widespread appeal, there is also an element of blog-keeping that doesn't allow me to take into account very specific audiences that have an opinion of me that I'd like to maintain, like parents or teachers or coaches.
So this is a disturbing concept, not being able to have complete control of what I share with people on an intricate, individual level, but perhaps it also urges me to think about the impression I give on a more general level. Perhaps it allows me to think about -- and become comfortable with -- the person I am willing to show anybody, the person I am proud to be, regardless of which audience I am speaking to.
Perhaps, in a way, this is helping to free me from the confines of the various versions of myself that exist.
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