WHEN BITING YOUR TONGUE ONLY DRAWS BLOOD

I fought censorship at Craven Community College and the press bellowed victory in such sonorous tones that reverberations still ricochet through the hallways and into the too-sterile brick and plaster classrooms.

Lately I have felt more censored and repressed than I did during the student newspaper wars, but there is no nefarious administration or bungling, foot-in-mouth college president to blame. This time, I'm the culprit.Sometimes my speech can be intemperate, sometimes unwise, sometimes costly.

The consequences, I've found, are rarely worth the momentary relief catharsis brings. Expressing myself has gotten me into such trouble that I've begun to repress the feelings I can't give voice to for fear of manufacturing catastrophe.What good would it do, I reasoned, to get everything off my chest at the expense of someone else's feelings? I thought there was some nobility in clamming up, but I always doubt the wisdom of dishonesty via the sins of omission.

There are times when I should have shut up and didn't, and the results were damning. But if I hadn't challenged circumstance, I probably would have harbored doubt and floundered in a sweat stew of what-ifs.

My words have both saved my bacon and cooked my goose, to unite two gastronomic metaphors. The trick is distinguishing which maladies can be averted by an impassioned plea and which tailspins are unrecoverable.

It's a skill I've never had and have thus far failed to cultivate.

Without surrendering specifics, there are at least three people around whom I consistently watch my words. It's wearying, and I have little skill with tame banter and small talk.

The one threshing my mental faculties now will be resolved by remaining unresolved. In this case, honesty would be hurtful and bothersome. I refuse to be either.

Maybe an old fashioned print journal (a non-public forum, unlike this blog) is in order. Because I'm bursting at the seams with things I just can't say.