projectanathema-blog

[projectanathema-blog]

16th of August, 2021

Dear Anita,

I rewatched the Hall of Egress just now. It's thematic elements lay heavy on me. What a terrifying situation to be in. I hope that I would persevere like Finn did, how could I ever know?

I like to be comfortable-- often, I sacrifice my life for this. How much better could I be if I was okay with being uncomfortable?

[projectanathema-blog]

This blog was born on the 15th of August, 2021

Dear Anita,

I thought I would start this as an idea. This letter is born of imagination and no expectations. I don't do well under pressure. So, I made a brand new blog, shiny and clean, free of all the awareness I had in my old one, when I was a different, less complete version of me.

I walked through the neighborhood today, as the sun was setting. It reminded me of being young, 14, in high school. I was somehow less and more of myself then. Now, at 20, I don't know what makes me different, only that I feel different. I feel like I know myself better.

I always felt different then, in a way I wasn't sure I could grasp. I still don't. What makes me other besides the fact that I will only ever be me? I have all the ingredients to be a normal girl. It's like if I were baking a cake, and followed the recipe perfectly, but every time I put the batter in the oven, it came out flat, or tasteless, or it crumbled as I tried to remove it from the pan.

I'm sure there's a reason, I'm certain of it. I just can't pin it down.

I'm not a brooding character from a book, who with great effort pushes the whole of the world away from her. There is no one who will chip away at my walls, removing pebbles and chunks of mortar. I once put them up all the same, but I never kept them. Over time I have let my walls down, because otherwise, no one would see me, and oh how I desperately want to be seen.

My two fears comingle in my head. I fear that no one will ever leave me alone. I also fear that they will.

I spent several hours at the library today, curled up and reading a YA novel. I cried more than once, even at the parts I shouldn't have. I used to tear through books like a menace, reading into the wee hours of the morning and leaving a trail of letters and songs in my wake. Now I've fallen into the trap of television and instant gratification as many have. Every once in a while, though, I catch a thread of the girl I used to be, and I savor it best I can.

I spent hours reading this book today. I took it on my walk and read it in the bows of an oak tree. I might have read this book once upon a time and not felt it, drunk up the romance and the charismatic boys and left it there. Now, I felt it. I heard the story of the girl with alcohol poisoning and I cried, imagining a friend. I heard about the brooding protagonist eating protein bars for months, fearing the dining hall, and I felt for her. I heard the changing and the pain and the grief, mourning for a before and I felt it.

I thought about what I latch on to. My family, my home, my bed. Maybe this story came at just the right time, to tell me not to be afraid. To leave and to know that it's okay to look back, as long as we march forward. I think I know that. It won't stop me from hating it.