In Denis Johnson’s story Beverly Home there's a description of a man in a wheelchair; his body is wracked with spasms and he spends his days drooling and staring into space. The narrator tells us “No more pretending for him! He was completely and openly a mess. Meanwhile the rest of us go on trying to fool each other."
I've been hesitant to write much of anything in this blog for a number of reasons. Initially it was simply because there was not much to tell; I preferred the occasional photographic or musical allegory to get my point across. Then I wasn't writing because I was just too busy; school, work, etc. Lately it's been a bit more complicated. Writing has always been an outlet for my frustrations, a way to look my neuroses and my befuddlement in the face and somehow try to make sense of them. Last fall, when everything was falling apart, writing in this blog was one of the only things I could actually manage on a fairly regular basis. Eating, sleeping, returning phone calls – they became the stuff of other people's lives. I only wanted to see the evidence of my misery here on the blank screen. Narcissism at its most base level. In the end, though, my musings here became evidence cited against me. Evidence that I was unstable, scheming, manipulative, unable to care for myself or my child, unable to face reality. Matt often cited "that thing you wrote in your blog" as rationale for why I was a complete misfit. Another friend with strong feelings about being "revealed" in my writing or somehow linked with me kept a constant subconscious watch over the detail with which I was allowed to describe what my life was like. My family worried if I mentioned that I was sad or lonely, and I would get phone calls from everyone wondering if I was on the bathroom floor again, contemplating my options. Writing for myself started to take on the sad aspect of writing for an audience, and it was no longer helpful.
I tried to journal offline, but pen and paper and I have never really been good friends; I'm far more comfortable in front of the computer where the sound of the keyboard and the glow of the screen give me a sense of accomplishment.
Friends, family, people who might be looking for hidden meanings: I want to write here again. I want to try to work out some of the things about being me that make it difficult to get through the day sometimes. I want to comment on the things that make me smile. I want to examine some of the things that are wrong with me. Not to mention, you know, everything *wrong* with me. I don't want blogging to be the latest entry in the ever-expanding nomenclature of victimhood.
Completely and openly.
Is that possible?