To Put Into Words
February 14, 2024
Writer: Mia Bronstein
Editor: Cameron Bell
I can’t do basic mental math, touch my toes, or multitask. What I can do is talk. A lot. And usually about myself. However, I refuse to express emotions verbally, so I turn to a keyboard whenever I have a hot take or argument. I have tried countless times to put two years of thoughts into words. I’ve tried making it lighthearted - thinking of my brightest and funniest moments to keep memories lively. The analogies I thought of were so obscure that I confused myself. To those who know me, I always have something to say. Yet when something is serious, my robust vocabulary disintegrates. To preface the rest of this piece, this isn’t the most remarkable application of my extensive knowledge of English literature and the AP stylebook. It is a brain dump - an attempt to describe two years of feelings or the lack thereof.
The task is nearly impossible. Vulnerability does not exist in my rolodex of skills. I can talk for hours about the most unfathomably mundane topics, but I couldn’t even acknowledge what happened. I still rarely talk about it. I quickly deter the conversation to self-deprecate, complain about exhaustion, or suddenly need to use the bathroom. Words don’t exist anymore, or at least not the right ones, so much so that I ghosted my psychiatrist and most of my contacts.
I used to think everything happens for a reason, but the last two years have taught me otherwise. I became resentful, sassy, and, maybe for the better, confrontational. I shed people who were dragging me down and prioritized those who genuinely cared. I could finally put into words the sadness I was experiencing with the people whom I had once trusted with everything. Realizing what a good friend looked like meant identifying those who no longer deserved a spot in my life. Distinguishable components of my animated personality shifted. I hated a random assortment of things I had once loved: sugar, Star Wars, Nathan Fielder, Florida, Papa’s Freezeria, the basement couch, sports, my birthday, family reunions, playing with our dog, fancy dinners, and video games, to name a few. Significant accomplishments in my life felt dumb - college acceptances and graduation were just any other day.
What clinical psychiatrists would probably diagnose as depression (I wouldn’t know because, as I said, I ghosted mine) I would call my “phases” - I would exercise twice a day for two months, and then my sneakers would collect dust for three. I had a keto month, a mango-only month, and a Doordash month. My tennis game was at its peak because I would play four times a week but never let anyone watch. I deleted social media for half a year, which I still do (highly recommend), calling it a cleanse. I became oddly superstitious, a severe hypochondriac, and lost any ambition to learn. I listen to songs attached to memories and sulk to Crystal by Fleetwood Mac daily. I laugh at niche internet memes no one else would understand. Through all this, I would never put into words how I was feeling and would play it off, as usual - but this word spillage of an essay is one of my first steps in doing so.
I use large vocabulary words and enjoy the English language. I had never experienced a lack of words. Rereading the words I have written above, I am frustrated with myself - “use a better adjective here,” and “how are you going to do this as a career if you can’t recognize your own errors?” It’s odd how much I overthink every word I type, but can barely think of words when I need them the most. I am my own worst critic, but the internal scrutiny has made me more confident in my abilities, and what I hope to one day channel into a professional creative outlet.
I’ve never been good at verbalizing feelings. While I don’t have a soul-touching message for whoever is reading this (if you have made it this far), I have a message for myself. To put it into simple words: I don’t know. I don’t know what tomorrow looks like, if I will ever get better at this, or if I will even let the world read this. When the words disappear, there are always memories: laughs, pictures, and ‘Impractical Jokers’ highlight reels. If words don’t come easily, I just have to dig a little harder to find them, and I thank Hopelessly Yellow for allowing me to do so:)
