I started this blog with the hopes of writing every few days. I’ve written in my own journal on regular basis, for years. Blogging should be easy right? But, life has funny way of throwing you box of trouble just as you’re bending down to pick something up. “Oh no you don’t! Try this”, says Life. Should I complain? Of course… why not? It doesn’t mean I’ll stop. I’m just expressing my frustration…. being human, being real.
So the title of this post is a little misleading. When I say I thought blogging would be easier, I don’t mean to say it’s hard. Actually, it’s exactly what I thought it would be. It’s my life that strangely became more complicated, at the same time I started blogging. And like a trail of on the edge of cliff, with big rocks to climb over and small stones that slip under your feet, the inability to rest and find a moment for myself has made it hard to get in the writing mood. I suppose that sharing my thoughts where others may read them plays a part. I don’t mind writing a sentence or two in my private journal. But here is different.
My husband jokes because I need to fix my hair and try to look good for the fast food drive thru. I don’t mean to do it, and I think it’s ridiculous too. Who really cares? I guess I do. I don’t want to, but I do. Writing here is just like that. I don’t want to care that people may read what I write, but I do. I care that my spelling it correct, that I’m using proper grammar, saying what I want exactly as it should be said. That’s not what I wanted this to be. It should be real and raw. There’s enough fake polished Stepford blog posts that read like plastic. If I want to curse, I’ll curse. If I’m not in the mood to, I’ll edit it out.
There is a risk that my friends and family will read this, and to be honest that scares me. So I’m not sharing this with friends and family yet. I’m not sure I ever will. That’s the great thing about a blog. It’s not social media, and my friends and family won’t be looking for me here. And I can’t imagine a scenario where they’ll be searching for me on Google and find my site. It’ll be interesting if they do, but they’re as much caught up in their own drama as I am in mine. Which is a strange thought.
If I’m the only one who really cares about my own drama, and everyone else cares about their own drama, does any of it matter? I mean, I get that we’re all in this world together. I have tremendous empathy for others, and I know I have people who care deeply for me as well. But no one’s problems matter as much as our own. We’re all caught in our heads, thinking the same bullshit, over and over and over. And if I don’t care, who does? And maybe that’s the answer. To not care. I don’t mean completely not care. Of course I care about my daughter and my husband, and they’re pain is mine also. I’m talking about the trivial stuff, the little things that add up and get us down. The dent in the car I can’t afford to fix. Which drives me absolutely insane every time I see it. How could I have been so stupid? Why can’t I go back in time and think just a second longer before pulling out of the parking spot to notice the barrier? It eats away at me, as stupid as it sounds. Nobody else gives a fuck. Why do I? It’s not a life or death situation. It bugs me even when I’m not looking at it. When no one is looking at it. The dent just exists, in the driveway where no one gives a fuck about it, or even knows about it. And yet, I’m bothered by it. Surely that’s a defect in my mind.
I guess in a similar way, I thought about how long it’s been since I wrote a post in here. No one is reading it, and even if I get a few visitors, they’re certainly not at the edge of their seat waiting to read what I’m going write next. On the flipside of life’s imperfections that bother us, there is the beauty that only belongs to us. Without imperfection, we can’t have perfection. And while perfection is rare, every now and then I sit, feel the wind on my face and think it’s a perfect moment. Every now and then, even if only for a second, I’ll forget my troubled marriage, the baggage and I’ll experience his perfect touch. It’s rare, and never more than a second before my mind fills the perfect moment with our past, but I have that second.
So getting back to blogging being harder than I thought. It’s not what many would think. Yes, time is always a problem. But it’s the fear of what I should share, and how that effects my mood to write. I don’t know if I ever asked the question while writing in my journal if anyone cared. I just wrote. It was for me, and that’s what mattered. Now that others are invited to read those thoughts, just like the drive thru, on the most subtle of levels, I’m trying to be someone other than myself to impress people who may be emphatic, but against the backdrop of their own problems and insecurities… don’t really care… which is both depressing and empowering.