F*ck me! Again?!

Here I am – again – trying to make this whole writing/blogging thing work, after yet another psychotic break.

I started spinning over the possibility that my writing could potentially hurt the people I love the most.

There is fear in truth; comfort in pleasant lies.

I also thought, I’m not being fearless; and if I’m not being fearless, I’m failing as a writer.

How to tell unpleasant truths, and not hurt anyone? Hmm… wheels are spinning. Wheels. Are. Spinning. Wheels are spinning. (My monkey brain was going bonkers in response to this question.) Gasp! Light bulb!

I went out, purchased a separate domain (unknown to my loved ones), and started a new blog under different credentials (i.e. username and email address). I started writing on that blog, and… well, the same sh*t happened. (Big, fat f*ckin’ surprise!)

My monkey brain thinking was that if no one had the URL address to my writing, it would allow me to write without fear. It didn’t. Instead, I ended up paralyzed on two sites, instead of one.

Frozen.

In.

Fear.

Absolute truths are difficult for me… and the more I write, the closer I get to having to truly face them. (And some of those f*ckers are mean and ugly! Who wants to face that sh*t?!) That, or I doom myself to a fate of writing the same sh*t over and over… boring myself and my readers.

(Also, I swear a whole hell of a lot when I’m uncomfortable.)

I prefer starting over to continuing on. I cling to the deeply embedded delusion that if I just delete, erase, burn everything to the ground (my friendships and personal relationships included), I can emerge from the ashes a brand new human being. (Of course, when I share this out loud, it sounds beyond stupidly absurd.)

I keep trying to move forward with my ankles in the heavy shackles of my past. If I just drag them long, and far enough, maybe the f*ckers will fall off of their own accord.

You would think that forty-two-plus years into this routine, I would have learned something. (This is ridiculous, perhaps. Or, This is why your back hurts all the time!) You would also think that I would tire of the weight…

The truth of the matter is, I don’t know who I am without the balls and chains… so much so, that I am terrified I am nothing without them. Who am I, if I’m not the woman who can balance and spin plates with fetters on her feet?!

If people can’t see my pain, how can they be expected to see my strength?

Mental anguish is exhausting. It is crippling not only to the mind, but to the body. It affects everything I do… and creates this endless need to be seen as a survivor. Acknowledged for what I’ve overcome. I’m still standing motherf*ckers! What more do you want?!

Lately, however, I’ve begun to contemplate how this isn’t enough for me. I’m not enough for myself. And the hardest part of that realization is having to acknowledge that it’s no one’s fault but my own.

Yes, I had a troubled childhood. True; some awful, nasty sh*t has happened to me. Have I had a few unexpected curve balls hit me in the back of the head and knock me off course? Absolutely!

Where I went wrong was in allowing only the bad sh*t to define me.

For forty-two-years, I have lived solely in response to trauma. I have been stuck in survival mode. My measure of success has been based on whether or not I’m alive at the end of every day. (Did I eat? I think so. Am I breathing? Check. Well, now that’s taken care of, let’s sleep!)

Occasionally, there are additional requirements added to my definition of “alive.” (Did you get through the day without a drink or a drug? Yep! Did you make it through without tearing Mitchell’s head off? Done! Did you f*ck a friend, or a stranger? Nope! Gold star!)

Don’t misunderstand. Every single item – on those seemingly simple checklists – is beyond difficult for me; but I still have an innate desire to be the standard definition of normal.

I don’t want to have to actively think about not acting like a crazy person… but I do; and that’s where my true trouble lies.

At the end of every day, having to congratulate myself for not acting like a lunatic addicted whore, just feeds my anger. I cannot believe this has to be enough!

It is extremely difficult for me to reconcile my reality with the reality of others.

I do feel at home in the rooms of the Anonymous; but the fact is, I have to live the majority of my life outside of them… and I don’t really know how to do that.

Today, trying to do it looked like this…

I got up and did twenty minutes of Yoga.

(Twenty minutes?! You are beyond sad!) Shut up. You’ve done nothing for days. Twenty minutes is phenomenol!

I took a shower.

(Goddam it! Your hair looks awful and dry! Why do you even bother?!) Shut up. It is necessary to feel clean… otherwise you’re embarrassed all damn day. It might look awful, but it smells pretty!

I made my bed.

(I don’t wan’na!) Shut up. You’re gon’na. You feel better when you do.

I apologized to a friend for being a sh*t pen-pal.

(Oh, my God! What is wrong with you?!) Really, b*tch? You know what’s wrong. You’re crazy, and this sh*t will happen. We’re acting grown.

I wrote. Here. On the blog. Desperately trying to do so without fear. In order to conquer what I am afraid of, I must name it. I must say its name aloud, and try to wrest from it the power. I am hoping to never hit that damn delete button ever again.

(…but you know you will.) Shut up! I could surprise you!

Author’s Note: I’d like to thank the readers who have stuck by me through the destruction and recreation of this blog. I promise you, I’m trying.