I am halfway through yet another letter to him when I stop myself. What am I doing? I see him every day now. I can talk to him any time I have anything to say. He's always shown me that he'll be there if I need to talk about what's going on with me. So, why do I spend my hours alone writing to him, and not saying anything when he's here? I don't even show him most of the letters that I write. At this very moment, in the room that we share, inside the little storage bench which is the only piece of furniture I own, there is a stack of letters addressed to him.
I've been writing to him for weeks. Since I've been here, I've been writing to him nearly every single night. All of my worries about being here, being with him, all my deepest fears and concerns have shot to the forefront of my mind. I can't seem to get away from them, no matter what I do. It drives me crazy. I feel guilty for writing yet another letter, but I can't stop myself from going on in it.
He's wonderful. I want him to understand me, to know me the way that I am now. I don't know if he would want me, though. If he really knew all that there was to know about me, would he want me? He doesn't seem to understand how truly amazing he is, but even so, even with the mindset that he deserves so much less than he truly does deserve, he could not possibly want me.
I suppose the real reason I fear that so much is because I know me. I know all that there is to know about me, and I don't want me. I am afraid of me. Earlier tonight I finally recognized this is my writing. I used to write all the time, and I would write from my heart. Poetry, short stories, fiction, non-fiction. It poured out of my pen like a waterfall of words. A symphony on the pages of my life. A while ago, that suddenly stopped. Or maybe not so suddenly. I didn't notice it for a reallly long time, so I'm not entirely sure when it started, or how. All I know now is that I miss that part of me.
I write all the time. I write for websites, for classes, to communicate with family and friends. My love for writing has survived, but not the way it comes from me. As I said, it used to pour from me. So many times it seemed endless. I think that I took it for granted, really. And now it's gone. I can't find it. To write anything, I have to be prompted. I write articles that fit the title my publisher requires. I write letters in answer to friends and family's questions. I write on topics that are given to me. I fulfill assignments. That's all I do. Except when I write a letter to him.
When I write to him, I am at last able to glimpse again that passion that used to consume my pen. I can feel my heart open, and feel all the things that are bursting to come out of me. So...why do I only write them in letters? Why don't I talk to him? He's always let me know that he's there for me. He's always been patient and kind and understanding when I have talked to him. Or, if I have to write these letters, why don't I ever show them to him?
Before I'm finished thinking the sentence, I know the answer. It's because I am afraid of what is in my heart now. With everything that I've lived through in the last few years, I know I must have changed. You cannot spend so much of your time just trying to survive and not come out of it different than you were before. I am afraid of how I've changed. I'm afraid of what I may have lost.
I am ashamed of myself for hiding.
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