Sometimes this thing happens to me. It starts small. I spend the day inside. Then the next. Then I realize I haven’t posted on social media in a day and I think I should but I don’t trust my voice because I get used to the quiet. Then another day passes and I worry that I’ve waited so long to reach out that whatever I write should be very important because of the imaginary build-up in my head and then I can’t think of anything important enough to break the silence so I don’t write anything. And then the next day starts and it begins again, but worse. Quiet. Hermity. Afraid to even talk online.
It’s irrational. It’s ridiculous. No one cares if I don’t tweet for days. No one cares if I do. (I don’t mean that in a self-pitying way. Just that no one is judging either way.) No one is aware of the weird self-imposed vow of silence I accidentally placed on myself but the quiet gets louder and louder and each time I think maybe I just won’t come back…that maybe I’ll disappear forever.
I never do and it’s irrational to think that I would…that my brain would simply not let me leave again. Even at my most agoraphobic I’ve never gone more than a week without leaving the house. Even at my most terrified I never go more than a few days without reaching out on the internet. But every time it happens I worry.
I wonder if that’s normal? I mean, I know it’s not normal, but I wonder if it’s typical for reclusive people like me? I wonder if that fear ever goes away…the one that tells you that the very last time you were a functioning person was just that…the very last time. Ever. I wonder if normal people hear the echo in their heads that grows louder and louder each hour? I wonder if normal people write posts like these and then stare at them as they try to decide whether they even make sense to…well, to normal people. I wonder if I even know any normal people.
My broken brain tells me to wait to post this because it’s unfinished. And my brain is right. But if I don’t publish it now I will delete it, and walk away, and spend another night in uncomfortable self-imposed silence. So I’m posting it.
It’s unfinished. But so am I. And I suppose that’s a good thing.