Put it in Writing

I made a promise once, to a friend, that I would write him a letter and pour my heart out.

I never did.

I wanted to, and there have been so many letters since, from people other than him...letters I received and never responded to...letters written by friends who were simply reaching out to me, being nice to me, warm to me, human.

I felt their touch and took their hand...only to let go.

I get scared.

I'm about the most scared little girl who isn't a little girl at all that you will ever meet, or not meet.

I'm real and I'm here...sure. We're all very aware of that fact. And it may seem so incredibly insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But who gives a good God damn about the grand scheme of things, for it is only a scheme.

I am more interested in dreams...

The grand dream of things.

What's real, and what isn't, and the line that divides...who can see it, but who wants to see it? It’s there. It's real and it's there. And Thank God, or thank no one...you don't have to be thankful at all, cause it won't go away. It's eternal. And ever-lasting. And just try to erase it! You'll fail.

That line is there for a reason.

It has to be divided, though not clearly, for reality and the dream life need to overflow into each other. It makes reality more bearable, more enjoyable, and our dreams more real.

I'm being awful lofty this morning...that's fine. My horoscope told me that my schedule has become busier than normal and to use the time I don't have wisely. That "if you allow yourself the luxury to explore your own feelings, then you can enrich the quality of your life. It's not that your job can't bring you satisfaction; it's just that by the end of the day, you may want to hide. Give yourself permission to do whatever suits your fancy."

Whatever suits my little fancy...do not hide...allow myself the luxury. The luxury of writing. Living.

Could this be any more perfect a horoscope?? It fits me exactly! And yes, I understand horoscopes are considered a bit kooky these days, but that's all right: I'm a bit kooky these days.

I'm allowing myself that luxury.

And for the life of me, I'm going to write.

I'm going to write, and write, and write. And yes, I want to hide...I want to die. I thought of ripping the cord just yesterday. But after hearing of the death of yet another friend. After reading the final words of the man I never wrote (he's been dead for some time, though only this morning, while checking old links, did I see his final words...and they shook me). And after the return of my wonderful friend Heidi. A woman who has stood by me since we lived in Stuckeyville...though won't we always live in Stuckeyville? Kooky, yes...or so it sounds...but she knows and I know...it's more than what it seems...and she's stood by me even though I've been a fair-weather friend, so distant for so long...I get scared. Adult relationships and friendships, I always think I'm not good enough. I don't know what that means exactly, but writing it down makes me feel better, and if reading it up can make you feel anything...well then my job here is done.

Though it's not done. I'm going to make a promise now.

I'm putting it in writing to make it official, for myself, and for you who care:

I, Ashley Brooke Chairiet, will not kill myself, online or off, ever again. I will not avoid my writing just because I don't like it. Just because it flips my tummy, and causes me such nervousness and anxiety...and when I get nervous and anxious, I will not tell myself, Oh Ashley, you selfish jackass, it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things...you don't matter! NO. I will never ever tell myself that again. I write. That's what I love, and why I'm here. And I'm not great at it, but I'm not horrible. Sometimes I might even be good. Most times I'm merely okay. And that's fine with me. I'm twenty-two, almost twenty-three: I've got time. Hopefully. And what else is there but hope? Hope and time and lives to lead. I'm going to lead it, and I'm going to spend the time living and then writing...I get to live it twice: once in reality, and again in the dream, on paper. Here's hoping I'll improve.

Putting it in writing...

This blog, Ash BC, will be here until I am thirty-seven years old...which...someone add this up for me? Is [Ashley biting her lip, trying desperately to do math, which she cannot do: she's honest-to-God numerically dyslexic. Tis why she loves words even more so: they never fail her. Numbers betray her] fourteen years! In a few weeks, I'll be twenty-three, and fourteen years later, when I turn thirty-seven, I'm going to start planning my great escape: once Baby Girl graduates, I'm going to sell everything and give her some money, and kiss her goodbye, and then I'm leaving...

I'm going to start all over. A whole new life! And I'll be whoever I want to be, and do whatever I want to do wherever I want to do it with whomever I choose.

Just try and stop me.

Or please don't.

I'll be here until then. I'm all yours if you want me. Me and Baby Girl. So many of you have become like godparents to her. You're helping me raise her, or, at least watching her grow up...she's yours too if you want her. You can have us both!

Until we start anew...but that’s not for fourteen years.

I promise to not kill myself, online or off.
I promise to quit hiding when I'm depressed.
I promise to write.
Whatever I want to write.
Whenever I want to write it.
And try my hardest not to hate it, or myself.
Please don't hate me either. That's my biggest fear.
I promise to quit being so scared.
I promise to keep these promises, and never let this blog die.

I choose life.

...

End Note: This was somewhat inspired by recent events (for those who know...or just in case you're wondering)...five friends dieing. And yes, just this very morning, I read one of those friend’s final words. He mentioned a post I did about final words*...

It touched me that he remembered. And the fact that I could go back to a blog that is supposed to be dead, but to me at least, still feels warm, and read and be touched by his words touching me about my words touching him...the words he read that are still written on my deadblog that also still feels warm.

That's what it means to be real and here:

We're in this together. Both online and off.

...

*Shelf-life


"It's in the post."