I am blocked and the worst past is that I know exactly why.
People want to read truth, at least a glamorized version of it, and I want to tell truth, but I have this space in me, something like a big black box surrounded by chains and barbed wire, which doesn’t want to be shared. At least not right now, no matter how I try to convince it.
It keeps warning to me to back off. It could get messy. But I know that already–writing is always messy. If you aren’t the type to dig deep, then writing isn’t for you. If you can’t dig deep, then you can’t write deep.
This fear started when I read back over my last blog (I’ve been blogging for 12 years now; before that it was collections of college ruled composition books) and I found myself feeling a sense of shame over some of the stupid things I said. Or thought. Or did. Or believed about the world. And all of the sudden I wanted to take it all back. Burn in up and pretend I never said it. Like I was so uncomfortable with the idea that I had changed so much I couldn’t deal with it and then I was scared nobody else would be able to deal with it either, so I privatized nearly every entry. Stupid girl.
This fear was further amplified when I looked back over old pictures of our family. I saw the many versions of myself over the years–that time I was so sure that Costa Rican living was all I wanted out of life, and the those six years I wore my bangs way too short making me look more like Mamie Eisenhower than anyone else. I saw the me that was lonely, and anxious and who never, ever slept, and how it showed on my face. I saw me with two terrible cases of postpartum anxiety and depression, and me withdrawing from my friends when I found out my girl has SPD. I saw me coming off of my anti-anxiety medication and facing the reality that I didn’t have it as together as I thought I did. I saw a lot of me pretending to be happy when I truly was not. I saw a lot of me saying I was okay when I really was not.
I resisted the urge to run a pencil through every picture Xing it out and replacing it with how I wished those memories had gone. But I know that would be fraudulent. Everything in me knows this makes little sense. I was unhappy, but what’s so bad about that? There are time of unhappiness in our lives and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s just part of the up and down of life. “Happiness doesn’t define you”, I remind myself. “Rise above the unhappiness. Be bigger than happiness.”
But then I think if the friendships, and how over the last two years I’ve managed to loose not one but two separate friendships that meant something special to me and how used and unwanted I felt inside and out. How I wished I’d never shared my heart with and wasted my energy on them to begin with. How I felt so betrayed by their sudden disappearance and how I had to work not to feel something was wrong with me. My eyes red with hours of crying, promising myself I would not let this send me into the depression I had just worked so hard to walk away from. Then congratulating myself when I was victorious in that battle.
It’s been over a year since I really blogged and I miss being open and honest, but I don’t know if I’m ready to pay the price of it right now. I have to find that place again where I push myself out of my comfort zone enough to express who I truly am without being left with that sick, regretful feeling n the pit of my stomach. I just don’t know if I’m ready to trust people, or myself with my feelings yet.
Basically, I’m testing the waters here. If I can manage to post this, maybe I can build on that.