I haven’t felt like writing, the last couple of days. Or, I haven’t felt like writing the stuff I want to write about. Okay, that makes no sense…I guess I don’t feel able to write about the stuff that would make the most sense for me to write about right now, because it is personal, and writing personal stuff has become an issue. Not for me, though- I have no problem with it at all. It’s that, unfortunately, my personal problems nearly always involve at least one other person, and that other person, no matter who it is, gets upset at me for writing about them. My mother thinks I portray her as a horrible person. My best friends somehow interpreted a blog about them as me calling them alcoholics (I re-read this very carefully, and there is no credence to this whatsoever). And of course, the man with whom I share my most recent child…he gets very upset.
The biggest issue he has seems to be that I do not fairly represent his perspective…well, yeah! Most of the writing I have done about him has been in moments of anger, despair, and frustration, and most of the time I was utterly baffled by his behavior. Kind of hard to describe a point of view you are incapable of seeing. Lots of times I wrote as a means to give order and sense to a confusing set of circumstances. Or just to blow off steam. That’s how I always wrote before I had a blog, for the same reasons. I realize that this is a public forum, and if I wasn’t such a praise junky, I’d have made it anonymous and kept my stuff somewhat private…but I am, and here we are.
I resent having to censor myself. Part of me thinks people should just act right and then they’d have nothing to worry about, right? Part of me thinks people are overly-sensitive and not very honest with themselves about what is and is not true about their character. Most of me just feels frustrated that I am worried about speaking my mind, and allowing this to affect my writing, the one thing I have one hundred percent freedom with. A small part of me thinks I would not like someone else writing about me. Ugh.
I could write it out in a private word document, but what would be the fun in that? I am hooked on hitting the “publish” button, then checking my stats every three minutes for the next 24 hours. WordPress has ruined me.
So, I am not going to tell any of you anything. At least not about this, not right now. I will do what the other 98% of the world does when something is eating away at them-keep it to myself, stew, take it out on innocent bystanders. Have some road rage. Take Ativan on a weekend morning, in protest of my insufferable thoughts, and as a flagrant act of passive-aggression. Can’t piss me off if I’m unconscious, that’s my motto. Eh, if only I still had some Ativan…
I’m unhappy. I was so happy just recently, and so this unhappiness is unexpected, and doubly upsetting. I know how to be happy, but I don’t like thinking about what I must do to get there. But the answer has always been the same, I just keep finding new ways to side-step it. I think I am out of ideas. If that is not vague enough to make you want to throw a shoe at me, I don’t know what could be. And I’m sorry. One more thing I just don’t know how to get around right now. Goodnight.