Looking Outwards, Part 2. (Part 1 is here and this part will probably make much more sense if you’ve already read it. It’s not long, I promise.)
So I set myself up for a tricky one. ‘My parents, the mention of whom I have not forgotten, and will address in my next post.’ Nice one, B. Thanks. I don’t know what the fuck to say. So this blog post is going take the infallible structure of just typing and blurting out all the thoughts I currently have.
I’m just not a gushy thank-you-so-much kind of person, and neither are my folks. I don’t think. Perhaps I’ve got them all wrong and am now going to have to endure ‘but Bryony, we’d LOVE it if you dedicated a whole blog post to gushing about how much we’ve helped you and how wonderful we are’. (I just read back through what I’ve written so far and noticed I’d put ‘how wonderful you are’ instead of ‘how wonderful we are’. That is what I call a Freudian typo.) If you know my parents, I’m sure you can easily imagine my mum saying that and me not quite knowing whether she’s being serious or not.
I have the best parents, ok? No hyperbole here. It is a simple fact of life. Introduce me to 99% of all the other parents in the world and they will not measure up to mine. I lucked out, big time. Never again in my lifetime will I come across such patient, thoughtful, supportive human beings as those two. And I am so fortunate to have been able to move back in with them. Life is a squillion times easier when you have somewhere to live and stuff to eat and a sofa you where you can sit and plug your headphones in and people will only bother you fairly occasionally and usually only to ask you something fairly inane.
But they have not been an easy thing to look out to. They’ve been going through a really shit time as well. And we’re coming out the other side now, but I think I can be forgiven for spending upwards of six months hiding behind my laptop and focusing on me.
I don’t know why I feel so uncomfortable, writing this. I’m uncomfortable just saying I’m uncomfortable. I think looking outward would be a whole lot easier if I wasn’t quite so conscious of it, but by now it’s gone way past saying not to think about penguins. If I write down what I’m thinking about me, I’m the expert. If I write down what I’m thinking about others, I could be wrong. I could be embarrassed. Inherently, I don’t want to draw attention to myself, but I’m painfully aware that this is a paragraph all about me, in a blog post that is not about me (except it kind of is). But I can’t write what I want to write without seeking attention. Firstly, I want people to read it, and to do that I have to say ‘look! Look at this thing I wrote!’. And secondly, I don’t know how to frame these thoughts without myself. I don’t see why I shouldn’t.
If you know me in real life, you’ll know that I’m shy. I much prefer to listen than to speak. If you ask me about myself, I can’t help but stunt my reply, and perhaps you can detect from my tone of voice that I don’t think my life’s worth talking about at all. Perhaps it’s wrong to communicate via blog instead, but there are a few bits worth writing about, I think. (Worth reading? I don’t know, and I don’t think I want to.)
We’re getting into a quagmire of a tangent here. Basically what I’m trying to say is that it’s really weird. But the role of my parents has officially been mentioned now. Thanks chaps. For everything.
How do you move to the more outward looking and interactive you that could exist? Honestly, commenter, I still don’t entirely want to. Trouble is, ‘you don’t grow when you’re comfortable’.* And I’ve got some growing to do.
*Once again, I have searched and searched and I can’t find the original source for this.