Stopping to write just for me

I’m a firm believer in setting up some ground rules for yourself when you blog. There are certain things I deem inappropriate for my own blog and I do my damned hardest to stick to those. And by inappropriate, I don’t mean vaginas and sex stories and cursing like a pirate terrorist on death row. We all know I specialize in such. For me, it’s about not using my blog as a weapon.

I am always conscious to never use my blog as a tool to hurt people in my life. Sure, I blog about certain people who are important to me or who feature in my stories, but I’ll never blog about them maliciously. Will never use that forum to hurt them.

Oh sure, I’ll snark away at the world around moi, the idiots I encounter, how asinine society behaves. But that kind of snarking, I think, is healthy. I think it’s good to let that stuff out. Helps you to not take it out on the people whose feelings matter (or should matter at any rate).

I used to have a friend who believed I did just that, used my blog to passive-aggressively attack said friend. Which, at the end of the day, I just didn’t and there was no proving that. So c’est la vie as they say. “They” being the French. Duh. Keep up.

But some bloggers blog just to bitch about those folks they can’t deal with in their lives and you know? That’s their right. I would hope they’re doing it anonymously because there could be some serious repercussions there, but I’m not here to judge. For me, I won’t use my blog for that. I’m also not great at being anonymous, because I share my writing with everyone I know.

None to the less, I’m a writer, yes? And writing out whatever is broiling in me has always been the best way for me to get perspective, let off steam, and also let whatever it is out in the universe where it just dissipates and becomes separate of me. It’s all very Foucault.

Or think of it like barfing. I have to get it out to feel better. Like word vomit, only with better grammar and punctuation.

And often what I have to express, what is broiling around in my insane little head happens to be something I deem inappropriate for le blog. So I’ll usually write it elsewhere. Maybe in a notebook, which I have entirely too many of and which if anyone tried to read in order, they’d have a hell of a time making any sort of sense out of (let alone decipher my hideous handwriting). Or sometimes I’ll type it up and sometimes save it, sometimes not. It’s all very unorganized and haphazard, but since I don’t ever plan on anyone else seeing it or even reminding myself of how angry or upset or stressed or what have you (lest I revisit that emotion again), I don’t much worry about keeping it all together.

Lately though, I sort of forgot to do that. I was so wrapped up in the demands of blogging and then I took my blog hiatus, which was absolutely necessary, that I forgot to write for me. Forgot to let the words out into the ether.

Not that I’ve even been upset or angry or stressed (well about a couple things I am) or whatever. And lest my friends and family who read this blog get concerned, I'm not angry or whatever at someone right now. I'm not secretly ranting about someone so none of you need worry. It's more about issues that were popping up about my past and affecting my behavior in the present. Which does affect others I care about and who I don't want to hurt.

But it’s like exercise, I suppose. You gots ta keep it up to stay healthy. And the truth is some stuff about my past and has been popping up here and there and I wasn’t exactly dealing with it. I was shoving it aside, pretending it wasn’t there (Like that one annoying coworker you’d love to smother in duct tape. Just kidding. Or am I?).

In other words: no bueno.

Also: I highly miss therapy. Once I go full time at work (read: benefits, baby), I’m so finding a new therapist.

Sose (It should be a word. Shut up.) all those thoughts were just doing their worst to me and bringing back my insomnia and really doing no good at all. Yet I didn’t really figure it out. How is it that we have these great things we do for ourselves, but when we really need to do them, we forget? How is that productive?

But Monday I figured it out. Like an anvil from heaven, it hit me. I needed to write. Just write. Just free write all those words until I found some truth and could let the rest go.

What’s funny is I’m still writing. I took a break to write this post (I guess because I had to share SOME of it with you) and then I’m sure I’ll write a ton more. It feels fucking great. So great I can’t believe I ever stopped.