I haven't really written in a while. Really written.
The truth is, I always used to write whenever I had to work through something, when things were wrong, when I was depressed, when I was emotional, when I was flummoxed, when I was troubled, when I was happy, when I was sad. The truth is, I wrote. I simply wrote. It was never for anyone else, it was never for any purpose beyond my own. It was simply writing. Simply expression.
And I even originally started this blog as no more than that -- simply expression. I figured I was in a really isolated situation, and it would help to reach out to others. And at first I thought no one would care, would read, would listen -- and was so excited when people did. I felt connected to others. And I loved it. The more page views I got, the more excited I was.
Except then I started writing for what I thought wanted to be read. Not that this made my blog any more popular or any more read, but I suddenly stopped seeing and using writing as a way to express my inner feelings, thoughts, turmoil. It became so much more than that. And so it became so much less than that.
The other truth is, I've actually had a lot of bad shi.... stuff... happen in the last couple of years. And that's actually really flummoxing. As I've spent my life dealing with serious depression. (As if there's a non-serious kind of it.) Which means -- at least for me -- that I've spent a lot of my life feeling like crap despite nothing going on. The odd thing is, a helluva lot has gone on. But the depression in some ways masked this.
As I've spent my days feeling awful no matter what was going on. I could be having a good day, or a bad day, or a fantastically craptastic day, or a fantastically awesome day, and it did not matter. Honestly, nothing mattered. Life sucked -- though actually that is not it, life didn't suck, life just did not matter -- and a spent a lot of time fantasizing about how to get out of it. And learned a lot -- I don't like the sight of blood, I have a really high tolerance for pain, and my high sensitivity to drugs meant that I usually passed out before I could do any damage. Fascinating all. And useless.
The irony of it all? Depression also meant I had a really high tolerance for crap in my life. And a really low tolerance for crap and drama in other people's lives. I mean seriously? You think that (whatever that is) is bad? Try dealing with something actually bad. As a dear friend once put it -- who is actually, let's face it, a dear friend because she relates the same way I do -- "If people even knew or had to deal with half the shit we've actually dealt with in our lives, they would have killed themselves a long time ago -- and yet here they are, bitching about basically a hang nail, and we're supposed to give a damn."
So yeah, I'm sorry, I am a bitch, but you know what? If you want to kill yourself, here's a damn noose, and here's a damn scrip cocktail, and just get it over with already. Because I don't have the damn patience for people who are drama queens (men or women) about their lives. Life sucks, and then we go on. Seriously. I have not just scraped bottom, I have licked it, and critiqued its flavor.
And life goes on. And that's the worst thing. I was that drama queen. I wrote lots of sappy (and sometimes good) poetry and short stories about how awful life was. And then I had a lot of shit happen, and somehow life goes on. Somehow actually hitting bottom means you see that, well, life goes on. Life. Goes. On.
Seriously people. A lot of people have dysfunctional families. Bad relationships. Woe is me. Seriously. Woe is frickin' me. More people than you know have "looked death in the face" -- and, you know what, some of us have laughed. Even when it was not ourselves holding the gun, but someone else. Because you can't fear death when you actually wish for it.
And apparently you can't write when writing no longer is about expressing yourself truly and is about expressing for an audience. Not that I actually have an audience, but that I no longer have an audience of one: me. Writing used to be everything to me. It was the only way I could make sense of, well, anything. And suddenly, it was no longer about me. It was no longer about writing. It was about everything else. A message. A story. A blog post.
And so.... The last few months I haven't written. It's not that nothing has happened. It's not that I haven't had a lot of turmoil. It's not that I haven't had a message, a story, a blog post. It's that I have. And that I've been too flummoxed to make heads or tails of it. Because it was not about me, it was about "what would make a good story to others". Which is.... BS. Yeah, BS. Capital B. Capital S. BS.
So. I've had no ability to write. Apparently, it's that I've started seeing myself through the same eyes I've seen others: "woe is frickin' you." And you know what? Here's a damn noose, and here's a damn scrip cocktail, and just get it over with already. Because I don't have the damn patience for people who are drama queens about their lives -- including myself.
So. I've had nothing to say, because I've been too busy doing what I hate most in others: feeling sorry for myself, instead of realizing that life goes on. Life. Goes. On.
As always you have i like your pieces, it is sad that you have not had much time to shre your articles expressed through writing , hope you will get sometime off your busy schedule to share with us.ReplyDelete
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