please excuse this intermission
I feel like I keep apologizing for not posting, and then I feel silly for apologizing because–well–it’s my blog. I’ll post when I want, damn it. Ha. 😉
I could say I’ve been busy, but that really hasn’t been the case. I’ve mostly been preoccupied with other things. And just not feeling it. I’ve never been someone who could pump out words just because I was supposed to. I don’t write on schedules. I write when I’m moved. And if I try to write when I’m not so motivated to do so, you can tell. I suppose that’s been the case lately, when I do post. I still love writing. I still have plenty of things to say. But I guess, some part of me just doesn’t want to.
I’ve been blogging for a long time now. I’ve been online for a long time. For the most part, I’ve always been active and transparent. When I’m having a shitty day, I say so–to varying degrees. If you follow me on Twitter, you’ll often get my ranting/political/random self because Twitter seems to bring that out of me. I’ve had a love-hate relationship with Twitter (and how I use it), and I’ve had to actively change my own behavior. I’ve closed my account so many times. Now, I follow a few people and stay private. I have policies for following and unfollowing, which make it easier to deal with the clique thing that happens on there. I still struggle with Twitter a lot and think about deleting about every other day.
If we’re Facebook friends, you’ll notice I don’t post much and am fairly careful about what I post. I have a well-edited collection of lists wherein I share particular things with particular people. There was a time when I posted anything on Facebook–and, for the most part, I hated Facebook with a passion. It was a huge drama fest, and I couldn’t figure why it was so negative. I have wonderful friends and acquaintances. But I found myself constantly upset whenever I logged in. It was enough for me to disable my account, take a kumbaya moment, and then return several days later with a whole new personal policy. The policy? Basically, that I would only say things that really needed to be said. That I wouldn’t post junk statuses just to say something (not that I ever really did). That I’d be a lot more mindful when it came to what I was putting out there. And magically, it got better. I commented on other people’s stuff a lot more. When I was on Facebook, I could be more strategic about how I spent my time. My experience changed drastically.
Here? For the most part, the latest version of my blog has been a good vehicle for expression. I like the things I’ve done here. I have my own little (quiet) audience. The problem is that I started blogging on a particular platform that lent itself to more diary-like entries. I got used to using my blog as a replacement for conversations–with good reason. I started blogging when my mother was desperately sick. I really started blogging, though, after she died–as I tried to sort out my stuff. As much as I needed to tell my story–to have an outlet–a place that was mine…I didn’t want familiar people talking to me about it. This was the stuff I left for people to find…the equivalent of abandoning a baby at a front door. Only the baby in this case was my heart and feelings I’d never shared with a single soul in their entirety.
Back then, it was necessary. I wasn’t well-versed in my own heart. I didn’t know who I had ever even been, let alone who I was supposed to be in light of her passing. I had no vocabulary for any of it. I did what I do when I write. I vomit it up, so to speak. It all comes out, and there’s no place to hide. At least, when I’m just being me. I’ve built walls my whole life, but–in writing–I can’t hide…or it’s pretty damn obvious.
The point is–I got comfortable doing this in a certain way. And while it served its purpose–and often feels cathartic–it’s not so good for me. I’m a conflict avoider. I can be wretchedly asocial. I often hide behind my words and my feelings. Or lack thereof. Speaking to people takes courage for me. And, well, I often lack the courage I need to form close bonds and real connections.
Social networks appealed to me, I think, because of that. It was an easy way out of the social game. I could be the charming person I am in writing. I could communicate through my pictures and my song choices. I could let it all hang out without any sort of feedback or tether. Which is kind of like vulnerability, but surprisingly NOT. It’s an illusion of vulnerability–a close enough approximation that, for a while, you’re fooled by it.
I’ve made some friends online, sure. Some good friends. But very few of them stick. Or, if they do, it’s only on a certain level. Social nets are great for maintaining established relationships that can’t be maintained in any other fashion. But, when it comes to making real friends that exist in the flesh? It’s a poor substitute for coffee or drinks at the local cafe. It serves its purpose, but–if you are like me…a girl prone to hiding…it makes it easier to mistake the temporary things for substantial things. It makes it easier to let yourself off the hook. Mostly because the hook hurts. Vulnerability hurts. It’s hard. And it’s easier to find ways to delude yourself than to invest in the real thing.
This year has changed me a lot. I don’t want delusions anymore. I don’t want close-to. I don’t want good enough. I want the stuff that’s real. The stuff that hurts. I want the hook to rip me to shreds. I want to hold myself accountable and invest in the people who really want to invest in me. I want to invest in the things that make my life better instead of settling for something that sorta looks right. The difference, I guess, is authenticity. I want to change this life, and to do that, I need people here for the long haul. And that means I have to be here for the long haul.
As much as I like to share my deeply personal stuff with the whole wide world, it doesn’t make any of that easier. In fact, it probably makes it harder. Mostly because people don’t ask anymore. They read. I don’t want to have those types of relationships. And I don’t want to talk about these things here anymore because knowing those things should be a privilege–something that should be earned. My heart isn’t there because I know it doesn’t matter much in the long run. I know my time is better spent doing what I love.
So, I’m going to continue to write–because I do love it–but I’m not going to talk about my day-to-day life so much. I’m going to talk about things I’m learning, things I’m discovering, and things that matter. Those are the things I want to focus on. I’m going to leave the life updates to conversations and emails. Maybe the occasional social network update.