(this is something I began…that I will most likely continue)
Stories are gifts? Share?
Alright…I’ll share my story.
I always loved listening to other people’s stories. I know they never told me the entire thing, I suppose there is never time, or they think there’s not enough time, they cut themselves short. Well, maybe I’m talking about myself. I cut myself short. I don’t give myself the time I deserve to tell my whole story, the real and whole truth. The truth is, though, I often don’t think I deserve it…I don’t think I am important enough, I suppose. I don’t know. I don’t know a lot of things.
But sometimes people just want to share their stories. I’ve always been there to listen, and they often open up to me. I guess I ask for every single detail, I want to know exactly what they felt at that moment, I guess it’s sort of funny to ask that out of people. But, usually, they don’t ask it out of me. No one seems to care too much about my ‘every detail’. The people who are known the best are the ones who aren’t afraid to put their whole selves out there, they don’t care, or they need the attention. I might be too shy to demand attention. But what the hell? I’m an actress, attention should be the only goal in my life. An actress can’t be shy, she has to believe full-heartedly in herself. I’m not shy on stage…usually, it’s just in real life, when the only character I have to play is myself, and the only person in the room is you and me, and you’re looking at me, just you. I guess that’s when I get all shy and self-conscience. I guess I just want to be liked, it’s simple enough, a lot of people feel this way, but I’m not being truthful…because nothing I do is ‘just that simple’. Nothing has ever been simple, it’s always been a war inside my mind, a storm of blood and bullets (and thinking, lots of thinking).
I’ve tried to tell my story a couple of times before…I was just never given enough time. Maybe if I write it down, you’ll pay me the attention I (deserve). My other problem also has been, well, not knowing whether to start at the beginning or the end. It seems like a simple-enough answer…I told you, nothing is simple. And finally, I’ll warn you like I never had the chance to warn the others, I skip around. A lot, I skip around so much that the time line looks more like connect-the-dots. I would have to say, that’s the main reason why I’ve never been able to tell my whole entire (redundant) story, because I can never follow the timeline.
Alright, I haven’t told you…the biggest reason. I haven’t told you why I am rambling so much, why I don’t just jump full blast into the past. You have to…promise me, as a reader, that you won’t laugh. Honest to god, you have to take this seriously. This is my window, this is who I am. I am going to open up like I never have before. I am going to tell you that very last detail. I don’t trust very many people, I want to pretend that I can trust you, the reader, but I don’t think I can. I’ll just have live with that, because I need to say everything, I need to write it all down on paper, just so that it can all be out of my head. Or…something, I don’t know the real reason, I suppose I’ll find out what happens when I finish. But I promise you, this is not just some petty desire. I need to be heard…by my Self.
I hate diaries. Diaries are pathetic. This is not a diary. There, I said the word three times, it should disappear. This is known as an ‘auto-biography’. Isn’t that official sounding? It’s even emphasized for its pure boldness. God, I love literature (and I swear, the only time I will ever capitalize ‘god’, is at the beginning of a sentence, thank you very much).
Finally, I’ll be completely and horribly truthful. Some parts I think I might rather die than write down…or at least cry very very hard.
Fuck, the one thing that embarrasses me the most, in the whole entire world, is my own History.
There. I’ve said it. Now, I will begin.