I Don’t Know Who I Am Without These Stories

The feeling of over sharing

I Don't Know Who I Am Without These Stories.

I have recently become obsessed with the idea of being present in the current moment. The idea of thinking of the now without a lingering thought of before or after seems incredibly peaceful. Sadly, this is proving almost impossible. As I was writing this at my desk, I paused for a moment to attempt to take in my surroundings. I spoke inwardly repeating to myself what I already subconsciously knew in an attempt to make my brain focus on such things, for example:

I am here right now.
I can feel the keys under my fingers.
I can hear the ambient sound around me.
I can see the light of my screen reflecting onto my white t-shirt.
I can smell the fabric softener from my clean clothes.
I can touch the arms of my desk chair, raising and then lowering them with the click of a button.

In-between every single thought my mind drifted. As I thought about these things I wondered what others would think when reading this. I thought about what my brothers would think, would they think I've lost the plot? What would my equally as engaged friends think? would they say it takes practice? I wondered how I would write this down on my computer and if I would even gain the courage to share it.

I mostly wondered how I got the point of writing about this. After standing-outside aimlessly on my break, I thought about how badly I wanted to write but simply didn’t know what to say. I thought about drawing from experience and writing a story based on something that I had experienced but what would I write about? I could write about being queer and all the difficulties that come along with that but I did that last time. I could write about being depressed and how I feel like I truly have nothing to offer the world but it seems a bit much. I could write about my relationships both platonic and romantic but who really cares other than the people involved?

There are a million different stories that I would love to tell, although I haven’t yet decided which medium I would like to do this through. I could day dream all day about writing a movie based upon my life and all the chaos that rattles around my head but in reality, that's not something that's going to happen any time soon, if ever. I decided recently that maybe I would like to be an author. After reading several Sally Rooney books I picked up on the themes and similarities that appeared in each of her different stories. If I had to guess, I would assume that the key traits that her characters possess are based upon people that she has interacted with one way or another. I thought to myself, I know so many mental characters that people would love to hear about! I thought of girlfriends past, distant family members and high school friends that would be unrecognisable to anyone reading my perception of them. For a minute I stated writing and just didn’t stop. That was until my thoughts caught up to me. Why was I writing this? Could I ever really get a book published? How many words had I misspelled? Was my grammar or form even close to how it should be?

Closing the tab brought me back to square one. Why couldn't I just think aloud and have my thoughts transferred to paper? I feel as though I live in a constant loop of asking myself rhetorical questions, much like the questions I have shared in this rambling story.

I know that it is hardly original to talk about the feeling that senses can trigger within you. For me it’s the way the smell of scandal by jean paul gaultier can take me back to 2018 when I had never felt more depressed and alone. The way the sound of Reo Speedwagon can take me back to some of the happiest memories of my life, smoking in my first independent flat with my best friends. The taste of my mums slow cooked mince and tatties and the feeling of comfort and security. It's a constant circle of reminiscing and telling stories that nobody else could really every understand. Along with explaining these feelings to people comes the overwhelming sinking feeling of fear that settles in late at night when you wonder if you have over shared, and often �" you probably have.
An issue I face when interacting with new people is needing to know them. I really want to know everything about people. What kind of music do you like? Are you obsessed with pop culture? Movies? Food? Musical theatre? Are you maybe a little bit gay? I need something! I am desperate to find common ground or a way to connect on a deeper level than what I find to be useless small talk. As I've gotten older I've longed for deeper connections on a more intense level. I've found that I don’t do things in halves, much like a child I become obsessively passionate and want to share my feelings with everyone I come in contact with.

Most recently, I rediscovered a love for a singer that I had liked as a teenager. I'm aware that fan culture is not really something that a twenty two year old should be engaging in but what does it really matter? It brings me enjoyment, it passes my time.
I can't lie and say that I haven't ever judged someone for their interests. I genuinely used to believe that anyone who enjoyed star wars was simply void of all personality. Recently I've realised that I search for passion within others no matter how it is manifested. I find my own passion when telling stories. It makes me happy to talk about my favourite song. It makes me happy to tell you about how I felt the first time I heard it, I want to know what you felt when listening to it. I want to hear about your first love and how they caused collateral damage to the person that you are today. I want to hear about your childhood trauma and the steps you’re taking to combat that. I love to bring up my friends and how funny I find them. I love talking about their lives and sharing what I can about them with anyone that will listen.

Growing up everyone has heard the same stories repeatedly from their parents. I know all about my Gran smashing a hairbrush over my mum's head, I know the story of my dad diving in a bath fully clothed just to spite his sister. I remember the stories my friends told me about nights out and what had went on after I had run away to book a taxi. I love hearing my girlfriend talk about her bizarre family dynamic and I thrive off hearing my nephew tell me about his day at school. Even more so, I love passing these stories on.

Although I really do want to live in the present, the stories of the past are what have raised me. I wouldn't be the person I am if I didn’t have a story to tell. When I find myself worrying that the words I speak are repetitive or uninteresting, I try to remind myself that I don't know who I am without these stories.