Cobwebs in my Mind

I sometimes wonder how I feel about the fact that no-one actually reads any of this stuff that I write here. At times, I wish I had at least somebody to make their comments, tell me I'm normal, give me advice. But really, I know that I get so much out of it anyway. I have always journalled since I got my first diary as a gift for my 7th birthday. It had Snoopy on the front and tiny little key so that I could lock it. I hid it from my two younger sisters (and my mother of course) and wrote in it every single night until it ran out. I still have this diary and every couple of years I get it out and giggle at my naive and curious 7-year-old self. I was actually rather poetic at times - I'll find it again and quote some bits from it. Kinda cute really.

It was written at a time soon after the cobwebs mentioned in my profile comment. When I was five, I told my teacher that sometimes it felt like I had cobwebs in my mind. She laughed at me and told me that maybe I was just thinking about too many things and I should go outside and play with the other kids. I was fairly deflated after this and tried to remember all of the things I had been thinking about that would make cobwebs. I didn't mention it again to anyone else until I was in Year 3 and I wrote a poem and called it 'The Cobwebs in my Mind'. It was for display at our school open day and I proudly took my parents to show them my classroom. As soon as we walked in, my teacher sent me to talk with some other children while she spoke with my parents.

After a while, they were laughing, and she took them over to my poem. "Here it is", she laughed. "Cobwebs". My parents laughed with her and I vaguely heard their words through the sound of my pounding heartbeats, floating and snagging in those very same cobwebs. "Too curious" ... "questions everything" ... "daydreamer" ... "knows too much" ... "what would she know about cobwebs?"

I was crushed. Each comment and smirk tore through the cobwebs, the slivers like glass penetrating through my veins and down to my heart. I turned away and left the room, the tears stinging my proud eyes. I knew exactly what I meant by cobwebs and I still feel them there to this day. The first web was spun when I was too young to say no and continued to be spun until I said no more. But that's another story. Many more have gathered dust in the unlit corners and dark recesses of my privacy. Infertility is just another one and the owner of that web has been carefully repairing every hole and false hope to almost perfection with each passing month.

When we left the school, they asked, what do you mean by the cobwebs? The jokes and laughs at my expense had cautioned me well. Oh, nothing, I just thought it sounded good. They laughed again, perhaps relieved that they didn't have to delve. Well you know, nobody has cobwebs in their mind darling.

Yes, I know.

So, when I think about the fact that I am writing this all alone and to help clear (or at least acknowledge) my cobwebs, I am OK with that. I have always written for myself and this is just another version of that. But it is more than just catharsis ... it is my record. My artefact. Just like my previous journals have always been. I do miss the lovely bound covers and the feel of the pen on beautiful paper. Maybe I'll keep them up as well (although at the moment, I'm loving this medium). The only downfall is that I can't draw on these pages too. I'll have to see what I can do.