Why do I write?

Writing has given me an outlet to my thoughts. Opened windows of new self expression and understanding.

Yet, in places where there's light, there must also be corners of darkness.

It seems that the verbal communication of my emotions has became a very small part of my identity. Furthermore, I suffer from a form of social anxiety that comes from speaking about myself on a personal level. It makes my head hurt and my heart ache. It feels like my life is a book anybody can read at any given moment. Ive published in great detail some of the experiences that has shaped me profusely and hurt me deeply. Yet when I verbally speak about myself, I curate the message's of my feelings to receive a response that I'll be comfortable with. And, if I can't see myself receiving a response I'm comfortable with, I'll say nothing at all.

Ironically reading is not something I enjoy, until recently neither was writing. Once upon a time I was an avid speaker, constantly chatting to those around me, with a barrage of questions to follow. I talked all the time, my friends would always tell me to shut up or that I'm chatting. I was such a curious boy, asking very mundane and simple questions that meant nothing to the asked but everything to the asker. I've noticed that those who ask fundamentally simple questions get scrutinized for their supposed 'ignorance'. That scrutiny is what forced my silence and kept my thoughts jailed. Often times those who've been condemned to scrutiny will condemn another in what they believe are efforts of preparation and/or protection for ‘the real world’. A brutal cycle.

In my case this was my brother to me, along with many other people, but for now we will focus on my older brother. My big brother is my everything, probably my biggest inspiration and one of my closest confidants. He is the coolest person I know, I copy so much of what he does it's almost hilarious and a little embarrassing. He takes much pride in the fact that he can make me greater and cooler than he was at my current age. Often going to great lengths to instill much knowledge and game into me – including cleanliness, advice with woman, the importance of education, self-confidence, and a little self-arrogance. My brother has always been one of the coolest people I know, which is something he didn't always believe.

I see many men, including myself, believing themselves as being uncool, lame, ignorant, or embarrassing in their early lives. Many men often times see our past not as triumph and proof of change, but something of great depression and desperation. Whether it may have been the fatness and self shame from one man, or the perceived lack of love and sexual romance from the other. Men will often times look at themselves in these moments in time and see weakness.

The training and installations of knowledge from generation to generation is what has made humanity so great. We make sure that our kin will not show the same type of weakness we once did. The weakness that brought upon us unkind words, loneliness, and great insecurity. But more times then not we will subject our kin to the same treatment we were subjected to. Not purposely, but nonetheless. It is difficult to teach healthy habits in a healing manor when the way you learned those habits come from places of pain and scrutiny.

When I became old enough to finally go outside with my brother I would riddle him with timid questions and premature statements, never sitting back for one moment. He would often respond in quarry to my questions and silence to the statements until I sat back and chilled out – until I became 'cool'. I would eventually stop asking questions and started waiting definitively until making a statement, becoming perpetually chill and laid back. I sincerely thank my big brother endlessly for maturing me faster and allowing me to become steady in the face of unbalance. Many people genuinely do see me as 'cool' and I can vibe with almost anyone because I don't make premature statements and ask worry-sum questions. I am able to sit in rooms with people much older than me because of my matureness and laid backness.

But, where's there's light, there will always be corners of darkness.

I don't ask questions because I am afraid of the potential scrutiny in its simpleness or show of my inexperience. I will often over think my statements and pick silence. I lack the will to say my thoughts out-loud in fear of disappointment because I was 'smarter than that'. I sit back and chill because I don't know if people will want me around if I do too much or say more then I needed to.

I began writing around a year ago. I can't pinpoint the exact reason, but I believe it was actually a YouTube video that swayed me to giving it a try. In my painful silence I found that writing could be the conductor of my thoughts and answer to my questions. Writing allowed me to understand so many extraordinary things. Most importantly for this piece, writing about my personal experiences has taught me how easy it is and natural for people to continue unhealthy communication. Specifically the same communication that made those same people feel little, and weak. Whether or not it made one ‘stronger’ or ‘weaker’ long term.

As I wrote down my most sacred and locked away thoughts I could feel the liberation of my curiosity. I wrote 8 pieces in 3 months, but for some reason, somewhere in that liberation my silence would become increasingly greater to those around me. I didn't need to be cool when writing, I didn't need to worry about asking stupid questions, and I didn't need to feel ashamed about my past or when I felt i wasn't cool. I am just thinking about Max, and I am simply writing about him.

But that’s the problem. When I am writing these introspections, I act as a different being than myself. As if i am simply a study under the microscope and not the being himself, as I am. It is incredibly easy to study myself along with being insanely therapeutic. I only gave room to communicate my personal feelings, emotions, and questions to the writer/anthropologist in my consciousness. It feels odd to admit my writing has become generally less personal. Simply because, I have allowed the writer to become a different consciousness than myself.

Because it wasn’t Max writing these pieces of what could’ve been great healing. When someone ask a personal question i get bad anxiety, I get silent not because I choose to, but because its natural. Its was once a conscious decision to remain silent in the face of friends or foes. It was once a strategic move that made people listen to my few words more thoroughly. People cherished the few words of a wise young man. Somewhere during my conscious silence, it become automatic, a direct response to anything that made me uncomfortable. Max didn’t write those deeply personal pieces, and thus when it comes time me to speak and answer the question at hand... I haven’t yet prepared because I am not the writer. I did not go through the journey of my heartaches during my writing, instead I chose the seat of the observer of my thoughts and pain. And, I published them in the form of an essay.

I remember when I published my first piece, I felt like that same little boy who didn't understand anything but had the confidence to ask about it all one by one. which is something I've never experienced with a single human being. I would often get agitated with my loved ones who asked questions about my life that I have already wrote about. Instead of answering personal questions from friend’s, I would keep note about it for the writer. Because it was easier to write it down than potentially face scrutiny. It was easy to take a back seat to personal and meaningful relationships. My writing had already did the heavy lifting of confessions, bad habits, and boundaries. So if my loved ones, or anyone needed a true, unscripted, and deeply personal understanding of me they had it to study.

I am learning that although I am expressing my thoughts on paper, I still haven't stopped suppressing. I simply stopped suppressing my thoughts, and started suppressing every social interactions that became personal. It takes courage to express your thoughts on paper making them actual for the world to see. But, it takes an even greater deal of bravery to allow yourself, loved ones, or the world itself to hear your deeply personal thoughts.

As always, thank you for reading

M.S.

One Love.