Thirty minutes into a chapter, I'm on a roll. Forty-five minutes in, I'm doing okay. An hour in I'm running out of ideas. More on the lines of running out of energy. I do that a lot. Sometimes I feel like it might be that my eyes start to hurt due to the lack of glasses that I absolutely need, but refuse to wear. The same thing happens when I read. Sometimes I think that it's because I'm too tired to focus. Other times it's because I'm not inspired by anything. Stephen King said “Amateurs require inspiration. The rest of us just sit down and get it done,” or something like that.
I was cleaning out a drawer of old stuff today and I found this in the back of a journal. This letter is well over a year and a half old and I still remember the girl that wrote this so vividly. This girl was feeling so much appreciation for a beautiful person that at the time was literally saving her life, but was afraid she was nothing more than a burden. She wasn't sure how to express any of that so when she tried to talk about it it always came out wrong. She just wanted her best friend to understand that. She didn't want to be a negative energy and always worried that she was because she could feel the stress she was applying. She could feel herself becoming a nuisance even though they never even hinted that she was. So naturally she did the one thing that never seemed to fail her. She wrote about it. While she still has nothing but love for this person and this letter never made it to who it was meant for, I think it says a lot about the similar feelings that people with the same level of anxiety experience. I didn't change anything about the original letter because I think there's something so real about it. This is from a moment in time where all I was feeling was the pure gratitude this human deserved and I was trying to get across all the things I tried to say everyday but never managed to and even if you don't experience this type of fear I hope it helps you see it from someone else's side. The letter read as follows:
I guess the first thing I’d say is that most of us are not afraid of the word fat. We are aware of the state of our bodies and I promise you are not the first to tell us about it. As a general part of life, a lot of us spend a lot of time disassociating the word fat from the word ugly, because growing up you’re taught that they’re one and the same. Sometimes it’s by the way other kids tease you for it.
I met death once... or maybe it was Stephen King. They've been said to strike the same fear in the heart of those who bear witness. Until the only thing particularly scary about working at a truck stop in Texas was how horrifyingly mundane it was. There were stories of women being snatched up and never heard from again. It was a very real thing, but for me trouble never really rocked up with a name I didn't know by heart. Still somewhere between midnight and 3 AM, the eerie feeling of being too alone but not so much so began to set in. It was a nightly occurrence, fighting through the anxiety that someone you hadn't seen had come in and was lurking around you. I remember, it was foggy that night, almost to the point of irony. Ghosts never show up on a sunny day or a hot night in June. It was always at 2:33 AM in weather conditions that made it hard to see each other on the road.