Sunday, November 10, 2013

My Empire of Dirt.

 I wrote this in 2013... December, maybe?  I'm not sure why I came back...  It happens again and again and again... You know, I'm pretty smart, and pretty damn dumb.  I'm re-posting it, changing the publish date to what it was originally.

     When I created this blog, I'm not sure if I really wanted anyone I knew to read it.  Sam said he read it.  I guess this was a good communication tool for us?  No.  I didn't start writing for that reason.  I even thought maybe strangers would come upon it, and relate to what I was saying, but honestly I really wrote it for myself.  
     I don't believe it was a good idea.  I didn't realize until now, that anyone I shared my blog with, was climbing right into my head.  Those readers would quite easily learn far too much about me, in a very short amount of time.  They were learning these very deep and personal things about me.  The darkest things, I guess.  I mean, the blog posts were just a representation of certain phases or mind-frames I was immersed in for brief moments.  I wrote, most often, when I was depressed or sad. My blog was a "help me" cry that no one could answer; or maybe it was merely a record of a loneliness I feel only sometimes.  
What I do know is that I didn't want anyone who doesn't love me to know that much about me.  I didn't want a stranger to read it and then become my friend.  Social media has changed my world in many negative ways.  I'm a writer, and it's easy for me to write my heart out.  My blog unlocked my vulnerability and I handed some people the key.  That was a naive and stupid thing to do.
Where do we go?
      And so, I won't ask for help, when I know there's no helping this girl.  I've gotta save myself.  I'm going to keep my feelings inside me, and figure it all out on my own.  I don't trust myself with my feelings out in the open.  It's too much for anyone to handle, and it's frustrating and heart-wrenching when they try.  Thanks, though.

I deleted my blog the next day.


      It's just that almost everyone goes away, in the end.  And whenever someone left, I just had more material for my blog, more sadness and devastation to pour out of myself, unfiltered.  And that's not what I need. And no one needs to try and fix me.  So I was crying for help, and then fighting my rescuers.  That's a silly thing to do.
      I write to understand my own feelings: with depression and PMDD, my feelings and thoughts can completely contradict themselves, from one day, or month, or hour to the next.  Keeping a record of my emotional roller coaster seemed helpful.

     Sigh... This all will either make perfect sense, or sound cryptic.  I just mean that I felt like people knew me and miraculously understood me, forgetting they had read my blog.  That's my mistake and no fault of anyone else.  I don't blame anyone for wanting to help me, or trying to make me feel better.  I appreciate all acts of kindness.




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