Tripping, Stumbling, Flipping, Fumbling...

With a love of literature that started very early on, one would assume I'd be much better with words. In fourth grade I read Julius Caesar for the first time. Then Macbeth. My love for Shakespeare started early one and fueled that literature love. In sixth grade, I dove into Dickens and purged through A Tale of Two Cities, and found it wonderful. Eighth Grade led me to tackle Of Human Bondage which, purely because of lack of time, I did not finish, but will eventually now that I've remembered it. (Queueing it on the free e-reader on my phone as I type this.)
In middle and high school, I excelled in English class. Especially in high school once we'd finally left behind tedious spelling and grammar lessons that I'd grown tired of long before my peers who would have happily continue writing sentences and having spelling tests instead of diving headfirst into Beowulf, Gulliver's Travels, Huckleberry Finn, Great Expectations and the tales of King Arthur. I began to do extra work for my English teachers. Grade papers, review essays. Even the teacher whom I despised my freshman year of high school commended me for my writing ability.
When I first went to college, I thought my love of drawing and painting would fair well for me as an art major, to be an art teacher. I was wrong. I hated it. With a passion. And my professors and their arrogance. Not all, but the majority of my art professors were far too aware of just how awesome (they thought) they were.
When I realized my are major was not what I wanted, I thought of what other thing I loved as much, and English was there. I had been enjoying my classes in English composition for my core, so why not? For three years I worked towards my English Major. I was done with my core, my Junior year left with nothing but classes towards my major and I was loving them. Arthurian Legend, Shakespeare, Young Adult Literature. The only class I was unsure of was the actual education course I was taking. I was also doing work as a substitute teacher. I did not enjoy it. Seeing how much people did -not- want to be in school made me realize how much the passion I had for literature was not shared.
I began to question my major. Perhaps I couldn't be a teacher, but I could instead, stay in and turn my bachelor's into a master's. I could go on to be a professor instead. Then the people in my classes were paying good money to be taught. Many of them would be there because they wanted to be there and not just to meet a core requirement. Eventually, I made the silly mistake of dropping out of college when my now ex husband thought it better for me to work full time so we could get married. The love of English and literature, however, has never  faded.
I've given this background for a reason. First of all, to share that that is why I write here and now. This blog provides an outlet. But also to say that with the compliments I often receive that I am "eloquent" and "intelligent" or knowledgeable of words and word use, you would assume I'd be far better at putting word to my emotions. Alas, this is not the case. Unless I've been given time to sit and reflect, my words are jumbles, especially if I try to speak them. My heart overflows with feelings, some which have no names, but my mind spills and sputters fears and worries. The two together bind my tongue and I am left flustered and often on the verge of tears praying I find a way to say what I want to so badly. Instead, I often remain silent.
I have all the world's words before me, but if I can not speak them, they are just that: words with no meaning.