Sobbing Into My Pillow

It's almost 5 am and I still haven't been to sleep. When I went to bed, I found my head was racing with feelings and ideas I want to express, words to make a bridge between me and another person I think has the capacity to understand me. Someone I can pour my heart out, even the parts that are a bit wounded and smarting.

I feel that the reason, or perhaps the benefit, of this imaginary conversation, is to allow me to see parts of my life side by side, parts that I normally don't link together. There is a pattern, and by telling the story tonight into my pillow, I saw it. It touched me. I sobbed.

I know that the important thing is for me to release these feelings and go on with my life. But at the same time, I find myself wondering tonight if perhaps I could be allowed to find a real flesh and blood person I could tell my story to.

When I heard my story tonight, I realized I have more storytelling to do. I feel a bit resistant to this, resistant to feeling the pain and vulnerability of being so real. And yet that is exactly the kind of person I want to be, so my reluctance surprises me.

I'm so tired I am having trouble getting my fingers to type all of the correct letters here and none of the wrong letters. Perhaps I should save the rest of my thoughts for another time.