God, I love this weather. Like my mood -- dark, brooding, pensive, quiet, with the promise of rain to come soon, like tears washing the clutter out of the sky, leaving things sharp, clear, and crisp when they are lit by the inevitably returning sun. But I'm not ready for the sun just yet. Right now, I'm enjoying the clouds, their weight in the sky, like a thick blanket, pressing upon me, cradling me comfortably as I wait of the rain.
I've turned to my personal journal, filling the pages with my obsessive thoughts, working through emotions and perspectives until I can feel grounded again. It's amazing how cathartic that damned thing has been for me over the years. The things I write in it, so raw, so free of any fear from judgment, so honest. So real. Nothing is wrong there, nothing offends there, it is just me and the page, spilling thoughts without fear of any consequence.
All the "me"s I've been always return to the same format, the same catharsis when we are in turmoil. That's right, I'm speaking of myself in terms of several people. Because that's what it feels like. I am no longer the person I was just a year ago, she is merely one of many shadows of the present me.
I want to let all pretense fall away, but people can't handle that. People can't handle the truth of what others think of them. I can't blame them. It's difficult to accept the reality that there are people who dislike me. People who feel judged by me and therefore bite back from a defensive stance. It's not comfortable for me to know that people internalize the things I say, the things I think, the things I write, that they hold my thoughts and opinions against me. But it's even more uncomfortable for me to pretend I don't have those thoughts and feelings, for me to push them away, attempt to suffocate them until they die, merely to avoid an awkward moment.
I'd rather be honest. I'd rather be free of pretense. I'm trying. And for the people who can't handle that, for the people who choose to run away, lick their wounds, for the people who feel better about themselves by saying, "We didn't like her anyway, who wants her around," I tip my hat. Whatever helps you sleep at night.
You know what helps me? Trying not to care. With one as analytic and obsessive as myself, it sometimes seems like an act of futility. But when I sit, as I sit right now, looking out the window, with the clouds low in the sky, dark grey, heavy with moisture, I know that by the time I finish filling the last three blank pages in this journal, the fourth of its kind, the rain will have come. Everything will be clear. And I'll be just fine.