Don’t. Over. Think. It.
That was the message I took from Wednesday’s post. For those who need to play catch up, do so here, then come back to this post.
Since writing Wednesday’s post, I’ve observed interesting phenomena in my day-to-day life and they all point to the message presented in the title of this post.
Don’t. Over. Think. It.
*Disclaimer: For those in the know, the entendre in this title isn’t lost on me, but it was not intended.
“I think I want to give up dreaming,” I spoke into the speakerphone of my HTC Evo Shift.
His voice was heavy with confusion. “You wanna do what?”
“I know, I know. It sounds like I’m going all Phonte on you, but hear me out…”
“Um. Okaaaay…”
I’ve been in my head a lot lately. My latest temp assignment allows for a lot of quiet time. No Blackberry, very little Internet access. Just me, myself and my thoughts.
The first few days, it was great. My mind was working in overdrive, coming up with writing concepts, ideas for Polished and ways to improve my life. I ended my days feeling productive and accomplished. It was exciting to beast through my work at the job while planning moves for my future.
A few days later, my mind began to spin out. I couldn’t focus on the present. I was stuck in the future. The feeling was very familiar. It would start with a negative possibility and by the end of the day, my thoughts had spiraled into a series of worst case scenarios. I’d leave work mentally exhausted and emotionally drained.
I hate that I’m so guarded.
There was a time when I would get behind a keyboard and completely unload on my blogs. All of the confusion, fear and anxiety that plagued my mind was effortlessly splashed onto the page. I wasn’t thinking about myself as a “writer” at the time. It was just that I was incapable of withholding the truth in written words.
Things are different now. No. I’m different now. I don’t think there are any more or less people watching my moves than there were before. For some reason, I’m just more aware of them. And I care what they think.
More than the confusion and anxiety that has haunted me for the last week, I hate that I’m not writing about it. The healing is in the writing. My past trials have taught me this.
Most of all, I hate that I’m afraid.
Am I not a survivor? Am I not strong? So what is there to fear in my own vulnerability? What threat could telling my truth in the only way I can, pose to my life?
None that actually matters.
And still, I remain afraid.
I hate it.
Just a girl with a writing habit, using a blog to share my stories and passions. These are the tales, interests, and observations of the quiet nerd in the corner of the bookstore; the professional woman strutting down the street in slacks clutching her Blackberry; the dork in bed by 9pm on a Saturday night; and the B-girl in the middle of the dance floor getting down in her sensible shoes. Welcome to the world of The Skinny Black Girl.
