Often times, I have some idea or feeling I desperately want to share, but my perfectionist brain doesn't allow me to until I've spent so much time optimizing it that I hate it. It's a vicious cycle I hope to break.

This section of the Writing Zone is meant to hopefully be a way for me to get these things out of my system without the perfectionist brain stopping it.

the sum of my parts

There's a lot of people in my life, and even more that used to be there that I don't talk to anymore. Even the ones that are in my life still might not be around as much as I'd like - that's what happens when you move across the country. And yet, even if those people are gone from my day to day, they're still with me. I am an amalgamation of all the people I've ever interacted with

I still say "neat!" like my second grade teacher. I tell people they dropped something after they're already picking it up, just like my high school friends. I tell people to have fun when they leave to use the restroom in the same way anothe friend did. I pronounce stir as steer like my mother did. I have traces of my father's Baltimore accent. I say "thank you" with the same cadence and inflection my brother does. I don't pronounce the T in mountain, just like my English professor. I occasionally scrunch both sides of my face to make sure all my muslces work, a behavior my old roommate called a "stroke-check." When I snort laugh, I think of the girl I met from Ireland in West Virginia who laughed just like me. I wear my favorite grey sweatshirt that my grandmother gave me in eigth grade that miraculously still fits. I part my hair the way my mother taught me.

There's so much more to this, but the point is, all these puzzle pieces make up me. I wonder what pieces of me others have and carry with them, even after I'm long gone from their lives. Even if my name is dead, my actions and behaviors will live on through others. It's so beautifully human. My puzzle is never complete, and I love it.

what was he like

went through my dad's book collection over the holidays. well really, it was mostly his dad's. stuff we inherited when my grandma died. i never met my grandad. i know things about him, sure. i know he was a doctor. i know he died of a heart attack while gardening. i know i didn't even exist yet when it happened. and i know he loved to read.

but i still really don't know him. what did his voice sound like? how did he laugh? what was his favorite movie? the craziest thing he ever saw at work?

did he ever pretend to be a pirate as a kid?

i found a book with a comically long title in his collection: The History of the Lives and Bloody Exploits of the Most Noted Pirates : Their Trials and Executions, Including a Correct Account of the Late Piracies Committed in the West Indies, and the Expedition of Commodore Porter: Also, Those Committed on the Brig Mexican, who were Tried and Executed at Boston in 1835". They don't name books like they used to. On the front inside cover of the book, my grandfather wrote his name, and a date of March 25, 1938, making him 11 years old. he also wrote the title, along with a symbol i don't recognize. it contains the words "Five Star Library" throughout, along with an abbreviation FSL. i have no idea what this really means. i've asked around, my dad had never seen it, no one i've talked to recognizes it.

i think it might be his own pirate flag. i absolutely would have made myself a pirate flag as an eleven year old. was this book beloved by him as a kid? did he take it to school with him? imagine himself along side those pirates? or was he simply obsessed with their history? i don't know if there's anyone left who knows that answer. i wish i knew.

writing just to do something

every now and then i become conscious of the fact that i've been in a rut for a while. how long is a while? some days, it feels like a week. some days, it feels like i've been here for four years. is this what depression is? so much less glamorous than what social media spells it out to be. just doing things i find fun feels pointless now. like i'm just going through the motions.

is this too personal to share on here? who cares.

i have a friend that i see on occassion. we've been in and out of each other's lives for the past five years now, popping in and out from time to time. months of not talking, then we see each other, we do it every weekend for a month, and then we're gone again. i thought this was good for me. i'm a solitary person. they are too. we both value our alone time, and we have a silent understanding that we'll always find our way back to each other.

i'd be lying if i said i wasn't worried this time. it's been a while. i miss them. morbid to say, but normally, i don't. i 'focus on myself', whatever that means, until they pop back up or i creep back into their texts like a benign tumor. one day, we won't reappear in each other's lives. is that now? i hope not. i miss you.

i'm writing just to do something. something that isn't watching the hours tick by, waiting for the next activity i have. waiting for the next day off so i can sit in bed all day and stall thinking about food, all while my stomach screams and begs for a home cooked meal and my brain pretends to be above it. my poor stomach. i feel for her. i wish she was normal.

i wish i was normal. i wish everything was normal. i wish i could claw my way back out.

i don't want to sound hopeless. i've come back from much worse than this. i've experienced and put myself and others through hell and back. i've experienced horrors both real and products of my brain, fading illusions that tempted me with doubts of a time that never came. i've stood facing the train tracks in the early morning, trying to will my body to move, and yet i remain. nevertheless, i persisted, as i do now. i will get over this. i've moved past that part of my life, i'll get past this one too. it just takes time.

i long for the day where i look in the mirror and without thinking say i love you, i love you, i love you.