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I've been blogging here for so long that I sometimes forget why I started or why I keep going. My reasons change with my moods. Currently, I'm in the middle of one of my "years that ask" moods.
Being in this kind of mood prompted me to look back over some old posts (I deleteda few lots of them) and to open up some of my pen-and-paper journals. Oh man. What a walk back through the tangled madness that is my inner life.
Part of me is pleased that I blog and keep journals. Part of me is alarmed at things that I have written down. I might regret it later but I destroyed some of my entries. I'm talking shredded the pages and soaked them in bleach before vac-sealing them and putting in the very bottom of the dumpster. Shit.
Some of my worst (and most cruel) entries were about my ex. And here's the thing: I can try blaming him all I want but that man never did anything I didn't allow. I'm ashamed at the pure hate I directed at him in my journals. Hate mingled with self-righteousness. One line would be pure hate and the next would be about my intentions to pray for him. WHAT???? I'm telling you, love is its own form of madness...
My journals document my procrastination and head-in-the-clouds attitude. I realize that I need someone or something to ground me. In the past, I was rooted in reality with a lot of responsibility. For a long time, I only ever spent energy swimming against the tide of taking care of kids and a home and an aging parent, and then a sibling. Then, suddenly, I was "in love". And just like all money ain't good money, all love ain't real love. That was one of my mother's sayings. So much truth. One of my now-destroyed journal entries questioned whether I was actually in love at that time or if I was just reacting to the last hoorah of my then soon-to-be-extinct ovulation cycles. That belated realization made me feel torn between laughing and crying.
I spent a few hours reading back over those journals. I almost can't believe how many of them I've packed around with me all these years. I'm undecided about whether I will be destroying any more of them. It's a little scary to have a written record of my deepest thoughts around. Deep thoughts, dark thoughts, deliriously happy thoughts, and hopeful thoughts. Some thoughts that should only be shared with the person who keeps your name safe in their mouth.
An interesting thing I learned about myself is what I am okay with and not okay with baring to others. I'm a lot like the society I live in. It's sometimes easier to share what should be kept private than it is to share what matters most. I think that is true of this time we live in. People are often more comfortable discussing their sex life with strangers than they are about being raw and open with a loved one.
Note: I'm in free-flow mode and can't be sure if any of this is making sense. Just hang with me for a bit.
I think I've mentioned here before that this blog is my passive-aggressive way of expressing myself. You readers are out there but not entirely "real" to me. What I mean by that is I don't have to look into your eyes and see your shock or disapproval or condemnation. I just get to share. If I met you on the street, you would not even be able to guess at everything going on in my heart.
Warning: Some rough segues ahead. Really rough.
I wonder if it's true that when you die your life flashes before your eyes? I just googled this and, apparently, there is some evidence reported. I don't know if I want that to be a thing. I barely survived reviewing my old journals.
When I was deleting parts of my journals, the main thing I considered was someone finding them after I'm dead. Yeah. I think about that kind of stuff a lot. Not the dying part, but the part where someone goes through all my personal effects. Not that I would be here to die again of mortification but if I could, I surely would.
And it's not like I have a lot of nasty-girl stuff stashed in the backs of closets and dresser drawers. My fear is that someone will find one of the journal entries I wrote right after I got mad at them about something. One of my worst personal traits is that whatever I feel, I feel deeply.
Thankfully, the balance of this trait is that I have learned to channel any negative feelings into writing/journaling until it's safe to deal with them any other way.
So keeping a journal is healthy to a point. As long as you don't keep all of the feelings on paper where they do no one else any good. Blogging is a whole other thing. Blogs go out into the world. Even if you delete posts, they can be retrieved. Yikes.
I guess I currently feel that journals and blogs are great for general sharing. However, if you love someone or are worried about them or just need to tell them something they really need to hear, you have to be braver. Do that in person - and in private. To paraphrase something my mother tried to teach me: love out loud, argue in whispers, and never, ever let the sun set on your anger. That's one of the things I pulled from my journals.
Let's all just be good to each other.
Peace
--Free
Being in this kind of mood prompted me to look back over some old posts (I deleted
Part of me is pleased that I blog and keep journals. Part of me is alarmed at things that I have written down. I might regret it later but I destroyed some of my entries. I'm talking shredded the pages and soaked them in bleach before vac-sealing them and putting in the very bottom of the dumpster. Shit.
Some of my worst (and most cruel) entries were about my ex. And here's the thing: I can try blaming him all I want but that man never did anything I didn't allow. I'm ashamed at the pure hate I directed at him in my journals. Hate mingled with self-righteousness. One line would be pure hate and the next would be about my intentions to pray for him. WHAT???? I'm telling you, love is its own form of madness...
My journals document my procrastination and head-in-the-clouds attitude. I realize that I need someone or something to ground me. In the past, I was rooted in reality with a lot of responsibility. For a long time, I only ever spent energy swimming against the tide of taking care of kids and a home and an aging parent, and then a sibling. Then, suddenly, I was "in love". And just like all money ain't good money, all love ain't real love. That was one of my mother's sayings. So much truth. One of my now-destroyed journal entries questioned whether I was actually in love at that time or if I was just reacting to the last hoorah of my then soon-to-be-extinct ovulation cycles. That belated realization made me feel torn between laughing and crying.
I spent a few hours reading back over those journals. I almost can't believe how many of them I've packed around with me all these years. I'm undecided about whether I will be destroying any more of them. It's a little scary to have a written record of my deepest thoughts around. Deep thoughts, dark thoughts, deliriously happy thoughts, and hopeful thoughts. Some thoughts that should only be shared with the person who keeps your name safe in their mouth.
An interesting thing I learned about myself is what I am okay with and not okay with baring to others. I'm a lot like the society I live in. It's sometimes easier to share what should be kept private than it is to share what matters most. I think that is true of this time we live in. People are often more comfortable discussing their sex life with strangers than they are about being raw and open with a loved one.
Note: I'm in free-flow mode and can't be sure if any of this is making sense. Just hang with me for a bit.
I think I've mentioned here before that this blog is my passive-aggressive way of expressing myself. You readers are out there but not entirely "real" to me. What I mean by that is I don't have to look into your eyes and see your shock or disapproval or condemnation. I just get to share. If I met you on the street, you would not even be able to guess at everything going on in my heart.
Warning: Some rough segues ahead. Really rough.
I wonder if it's true that when you die your life flashes before your eyes? I just googled this and, apparently, there is some evidence reported. I don't know if I want that to be a thing. I barely survived reviewing my old journals.
When I was deleting parts of my journals, the main thing I considered was someone finding them after I'm dead. Yeah. I think about that kind of stuff a lot. Not the dying part, but the part where someone goes through all my personal effects. Not that I would be here to die again of mortification but if I could, I surely would.
 |
| And all my paper journals! |
And it's not like I have a lot of nasty-girl stuff stashed in the backs of closets and dresser drawers. My fear is that someone will find one of the journal entries I wrote right after I got mad at them about something. One of my worst personal traits is that whatever I feel, I feel deeply.
This right here is not just a joke, on a wrong day, it's my life
 |
| my feelings are easily hurt |
Thankfully, the balance of this trait is that I have learned to channel any negative feelings into writing/journaling until it's safe to deal with them any other way.
So keeping a journal is healthy to a point. As long as you don't keep all of the feelings on paper where they do no one else any good. Blogging is a whole other thing. Blogs go out into the world. Even if you delete posts, they can be retrieved. Yikes.
I guess I currently feel that journals and blogs are great for general sharing. However, if you love someone or are worried about them or just need to tell them something they really need to hear, you have to be braver. Do that in person - and in private. To paraphrase something my mother tried to teach me: love out loud, argue in whispers, and never, ever let the sun set on your anger. That's one of the things I pulled from my journals.
Let's all just be good to each other.
Peace
--Free
