My body is restless. I can’t stop moving. I have to do something but I am stuck in a two-by-three-foot space. I can’t talk with anyone. I can’t text or call anyone. I don’t have a pen. I must write. I must convey ideas. I am not okay with just my thoughts because then the anxiety will creep. It indeed has already done so. I can’t believe I have paper but no pen. A writer’s worst offense. A cardinal sin. Counting down the minutes to a change. Checking my new sparkly watch that doesn’t feel quite right yet. It covers something I love about my body yet I can’t quite put it on my right wrist yet. This feeling. This feeling that I don’t quite belong. It makes me weary and sad. I sit in awe of how it seems like others are at ease. Why am I the only one nervously looking around? That must be heaven. That there is a place I will feel safe always. I will not worry, not stress. I won’t feel out of place. I won’t be this way. The watch on my wrist won’t be a bit too tight and too loose at the same time.
It’s always been this way. I’ve always had these words I can’t share. I’ve always been the one who’s awake while others sleep, needing to write as a form of processing my endless thoughts. The page doesn’t judge, it just holds space. It doesn’t respond with an inquisitive look that may be perceived as judgement. The page is a sanctuary, the page is a counselor. I long to have these conversations with a person but no person can give me what I need or want. No person can give me the understanding and that I desire.
When I feel this way I understand why. He is directing me toward himself. He understands. He will hear. He knows.