I am the type who processes outloud. Within my mind stories and stories of conversations necessary to my bones. But I stutter when I try to tell you what I’m thinking of. Most of the time you’ll try to fill in my mind gaps… Words I know, that I can conjure to my fingertips but never to the necessary tongue. My eloquence dies by voice. Yet, I have to speak to hear myself say something. Outloud I have to claim my choices, claim my worth, claim your worth, claim my plans… Outloud I wish I could tell you the way I feel when you stand beside me (not a specific you, any you out there). I have to tell you. If I don’t, I won’t believe in any of it. If you stand near me long enough I will tell you my life story (keeping my own secrets rarely matters to me, secrets are only what you make them). If you stand near me long enough, you will learn what battle I am fighting. If I feel you near to me, I will ask for your opinion. Not because it will change mine, but rather
that I like to keep a tally.
I process my hopes and fears, my pain and illness… I process what is mine to share out loud. When I hear myself say the words they become real — a functioning reality with which to do battle.
Until I speak the words, the struggle is something only in my mind. And you can’t beat what you can’t see. So I process outwardly.
Still, I envy the Dead Sea her secrets and her sacred spaces. What a thing it must be to be capable of battle within only yourself.
I, processing outwardly, am requesting allies, new eyes, to see the issue and help me consider a resolution.