I always knew I was different. The way that others had friends was not the way that I did. Having a twin, an instant best friend, mad it unnecessary to seek out others. Although we were made different, her for convention and math, me a creative and somewhat non conformist – I always saw it as a gift.

Here I sit, feeling a bit lonely. I am happy with my life. I teach. I puppy sit. I hang out with my twin and my niece and nephew. As hard as I have tried, it is still as if I am part of a pair and not a value of one. Nephew – calls and texts her. Niece – Same. Brother – Ditto. Mom and Dad – a month can go by without communication. This is the secret curse of twindom. I am taken care of and have a good friend, but when you communicate closely with only one person, no matter how caring and loving that can be hard.

This is the source of loneliness and much anxiety. This resets the anxiety, a monster that invades my spirit from time to time. Writing is my catharsis, however weak that may be. As you see, my mom told me once that words once written may never be erased. This is particularly true in cyberspace. The writing is always there. Positive. Negative. With whatever intent. It is awful. I doubt. I dread. I know how people can read into words and even though they are just face value, I would never want to hurt people with my words.

Every time I write, I reveal something about myself, and I NEVER want that revelation to hurt someone else, cause a discussion maybe, but not hurt. That is not my goal, nor my purpose.

I know God wants me to write. I have a message, but I never want to be a bearer of pain. I can remember times when a fun word used lackadaisically has impacted me. My twin, my love of my life, until someone else is sent, called me eccentric. I had always associated that word with two things: genius (thanks, very much), but in a socially misguided way and one in which connection doesn’t happen. I think of Sheldon Cooper on the Big Bang Theory. So smart, but lacks friendships and relationships. It is not so much that he  is self-centered, he lacks perspective.

I feel I have nothing but perspective. I analyze every single move I make to the point that I do not have time to know what I know about myself. In the middle of my life, and so worried about success and survival, that I can’t help but see things from the perspective of the person who goes to church everyday, has no time for others, uses medication to make my mind stop racing, the new teacher who has so many ideas, the next year administrator who has energy to burn. I do nothing but look at things from other perspectives, but come across as if I have none.

I am eccentric, obsessed, with certain ways of doing things at one minute and zig-zag the next. All the while, all I want is connection. I want to be the kid at the play ground who has lots of game possibilities, not the one playing on the swings alone.

As I age, the ability get harder, Why am I the one no one invites? I am flexible. I like to do things, it just takes full ability to understand what I  might encounter. My anxiety and my ability to see multiple endings and perspectives takes the fun our of adventures. Maybe I need control and that’s why I try to see things, but in my heart, it’s a lonely place when you are eccentric. It labels you indecisive, unpredictable, and people don’t like that. I work my butt off to be all that others need, but in the end, it does not get me what I need. This usual joyful writer is introspective and not really feeling joyful at all tonight.

The Anxious Writer

This is about one of my characters that I am writing. Blogging is confusing and I continue to lose posts. I may have to break down and purchase a package…..of yellow legal pads.

Here is some writing about Ashleigh, one of my favorite characters. She struggles with anxiety, and as our world gets more and more hectic, students everywhere are struggling with this illness. Education and life lessons learned way too fast,

Ashleigh’s story – the anxious writer.

She had writer’s block again, which seemed impossible given the way her thoughts raced. Her teacher had expected a written assignment about some prompity prompt. Again.

Joyful, meaningful, fraught with layers of skill. Ashleigh had layers, all right, but to get to the joy there was so much else. Too much.

Try insecurity for one. Competition created insecurity and there was no escape from that competition. Especially when that competition was with your perfect alter ego. The intensity of trying to fit in, to be your perfect self – you could spontaneously combust in just a moment. Competition, vying with that long, lingering lists of things that good people do was paralyzing.

Ambition, that was another layer. Although, adept at many things, Ashleigh was always slightly behind the curve of her ambitions. Straight A student? 88 in Language Arts. That pointilism perspective piece from art. That piece had hurt. Hours of time spent placing dot after meaningless dot. Measuring, trying to capture all of the images in her mind. Sharp, crisp images with dimension, hard lines, dark shadows. It had scored highly but never as good as Grace, who barely had to look at a piece of paper for a beautiful image to appear.

Ashleigh knew where start now and that was a rip down the center of her white pristine paper, so clean and perfect that it mocked her. “I will show them joy”, she thought, as she laid her head on her desk, refusing to write.