I have never advertised any blog that I’ve ever written on. I have one little signature which I put at the bottom of some emails. Mostly I don’t like to blog because all my blogs are about not blogging. Now, my diary entries are about not writing in my journal. I don’t write in the morning now much either, which used to be my old routine. I used to be able to count on at least all of the writing routines. Now, rather than just avoiding a public that wasn’t really ever interested in me, and then avoiding my friends (who have too much to do to listen to my never-changing crapola); I am now also avoiding myself.
I think that “me” is sick of my self-loathing. It is now causing me to avoid work, even.
It’s been quite a year. Mostly, I have just sat around staring at people and feeling. Having strange little thoughts and trying strange little things on for size. And always, trying to figure out how I could write without nauseating myself with this whining. I still have not been very johnny-on-the-spot about the writing.
I don’t know what to do about all of that.
I am very afraid. There have been some “hard knocks.” That’s what my dad’s side of the family calls it … the “school of hard knocks.” I feel bad even saying it, because I live the luscious Western life. I am fed and clothed and am in the top eschelon of the top 1% or whatever. I live in a city where bad things hardly ever happen. I am safe from everyone but myself. When I want to complain about the “horrors in my life,” it’s really not going to impress anyone that much. But it’s very scary to me.
On paper, I do not look very brave. There are a lot of things about my life that look very different on paper than they do in my head.
I’ve decided to be okay with the fact that I’m not perfect. This hurts a lot. I want to be perfect. It feels like giving up. I didn’t really want to do anything at all unless I had an unshakable plan. This includes writing anywhere every day. I thought “I’ll come back and do this-or-that when I am a whole person.” So I have vegetated. Waiting for perfection. I was going to come out of nowhere, a complete being. If I am ever complete, I will be too old to care.
So I will write some things down and stare at them until they make sense. It’s important that I keep words spooling out onto the page and that they keep popping up onto a screen. And that I keep organizing them somehow. And that they are going through a filter, because I still have my secrets. I used to not think I deserved to have little things that were just mine. I am a married woman of 35 … who has blown all her chances at stuff. I didn’t get to have any mystery. But I don’t think that’s fair. I’m sick of being told what to do.
I have rediscovered the simple pleasures of writing this kind of thing in a cafe where all the songs are just stunningly perfect.