It’s been over four years since Heck died and this is the first time I’ve really felt like writing in a long time. I had a typical dip in mood earlier in the year, and I’ve made it worse by not talking to anyone about it. Now, in my defense, this has been a tough year for people around me, and when I really needed, and was ready, to talk, everyone was very much off the radar. So that wasn’t great. But the truth is that I don’t really talk about my feelings at the best of times.
The frustrating part is that my inability to talk about things isn’t caused by any trauma, nor is it some mild and quirky personality trait. It’s my very nature. And I have worked hard my entire life to work around it. Being with Heck, it wasn’t a problem. I didn’t need to tell him something was wrong for him to act like he cared about me, because he always did. I could talk to him about anything, but I didn’t have to. It wasn’t work. And yes, I relied on him to make phone calls for me. I hid behind him in unfamiliar social situations.
And I’m proud that in the last four years I’ve built that missing part of me up. People I’ve met since just wouldn’t really believe I was shy, let alone cripplingly non verbal. But at the same time, it pisses me off when people suggest that I can solve my problems by just talking about them. It’s like telling someone with no arms to give you a wave if they need some help.
But I do need to talk about things. I was lucky to have someone who filled in the gaps for me, but I don’t now. I have to fill them in myself. So I’ve tried… but I’ve only scratched the surface. And I’ve joined a local widows group that might involve some meet ups so maybe I can even find people who relate.
And I remembered why I started blogging to begin with. To write something “out loud” instead of running through conversations, that will never really happen, in my head.