Speak Memory

I have what feels like a million other things to do right now. Research to do. Interviews to conduct. And several, several drafts to work out. But I feel compelled to write this, because I'm hoping I'll figure something out.

Last night while I was pounding out a story for my news feature writing class I took a brief break and checked my facebook. There I found a message from a friend. She had found my blog and was reading it, telling me how much she enjoyed it. A little while later I received another message from her, saying how she couldn't stop reading my blog. I was flattered but my first thought was literally, "Wow. People actually get something out of my ramblings."

After reading that I came here, to my blog, and looked over the things I had written in the past year or so. I realized there is a very prominent theme in every single one: drama. Drama in relationships, drama with my feelings, drama in religious beliefs and so on. It dawned on me that the reason I haven't been writing very many blogs lately is because for once in my life I have no drama. There's always stress with school and the future and blah, blah, blah, but for once I have nothing to be completely concerned about. I know enough of what to expect that I'm not freaking out. I am comfortable enough to not be worrying about the future or over-thinking the past. I've finally struck a nice little balance and I'm happy with it.

Except now I realize I have nothing to write about.

That's not true. I have been writing about something dramatic. In fact it's probably the most "dramatic" story of my life.

My magazine prof recruited myself and other student writers to write a book. A collection of personal essays, we brainstormed themes and were free to choose a personal story we wanted to write about. When "mentor" was decided as one of the themes, I instantly thought of my experience with one of my best, and worst, mentors. For some reason I knew I had to write about it.

So since the start of this school year I have been working on telling the whole story as to what happened back in high school with my cross-country coach. I wanted to get it all out. Why? I don't know. I still don't know. But I just had to.

I've told very, very few people about this little project. I have not told my friends or my family. My boyfriend only knows because he wonders why on certain Saturday mornings I venture off to meet with other writers. And even after that I tell him about the meetings, but nothing else. And I was extremely hesitant to tell him what I was writing about.

I'm not embarrassed of this story. If I was, I wouldn't write about it. But I am sick of it. And I know that my close group of loved ones are sick of it as well. They were there when most of it happened and helped me get through the aftermath of it. While my story was dramatic for me, they were the ones who had to listen to me complain about it all. They were the ones who had to convince me that he wasn't the person I thought he was, no I can't be friends with him, and I needed to move on. And I have. So why write about it?

I haven't told my loved ones about it because I am afraid. I am afraid of what they will think. I'm afraid that in the back of their minds they will think to themselves, "She's still not over it. She still hasn't moved on. She is still dwelling on it."

It may look that way but I know it's not. I know that the reason I was able to sit down and finally completely reflect on it is because I have no more emotional connections to it. I am drained. Maybe a little bitter still, but I feel emotionally exhausted. Writing about this was proof that I feel no connections to the past.

In all honesty, now that I have written about it, all I want to do is print it. Then burn it. And then never think of it again. Impossible, I know. But watching thirty pages of memories disintegrate into a ball of flames sounds so therapeutic to me.

And while I do actually plan on doing that, the fact remains that this is getting printed. It will be bound in a nice little book with my friends' writings of their experiences; some of them happy, others not so much. And whoever gets their hands on the book will have access to my past.

Why do writers write? We write to entertain. We write to teach. We write because we hope that in some small case the stories we share will have an influence on someone else's life.

I still don't know what I got out of writing my story. I still don't know why that was the story I chose to tell. But my hope is that if I can't get something out of it, someone else will. Maybe someone will take something away from my story. Maybe that's what I need to get out of it; that my story was able to affect someone else.