I don’t want to be at the bottom of these emotions all the time. I want a break from the feeling that if I rake myself over the coals, kneading my raw meat emotions like rising dough, you’ll all feel less alone.
Writing about yourself is probably a pretty selfish thing to do all the time, it’s not lost on me, but I don’t do it for me.
I mean – I do. Of course I do, I’m writing so I remember, so I learn, so I can some day show my daughter that the isolation she may be feeling? Is OK. That she’s OK.
I’ve had people compare my blog to something of an ego boost – and then they go on to tell me why they don’t blog, because they’re not insecure, don’t need the strokes to their instability; that what they’re doing is good, great, wonderful, wanted, needed … you name it.
Here’s the thing: I have a blog, I am not blogging. I’m writing. I’m storytelling my life and my mistakes and my triumphs in real time. Sometimes I go backwards, often I look ahead.
Lately I’m letting go.
BLAH BLAH BLAH. Explain, emote, feel, write. Rinse and Repeat.
I’m sick of myself.
So how are you?