Me again.
This always happens. I go a long time without writing a blog post and before I know it, I'm too panicked by the length of stupid self-inflicted sabbatical and too insecure in my own writing and my own ideas to actually sit back down with my laptop and attempt to conquer the hideous mental blocks I've put firmly in place for myself.
I forget writing is therapeutic. I forget it's my blog; I can write whatever I want and I'm in control. I even forget sometimes that writing is what I do, what I want to do and what I should do. I'll try and find solace in my smartphone; in social media, in other people's lives and their pretty pictures of this tree and that outfit, in gaming apps where I humiliate myself trying to use a triple word score and a double letter space with my pitiful line-up of tiles, even in spending money when I really shouldn't be on things I don't and won't need. I grow immensely frustrated and just downright sad because I can't find anything to inspire me, I can't find any outlet for my feelings, and I can't figure out where I fit in anywhere.
Then I remember that I've always had and will always have my blog. Having my own URL, my own space on the world wide web, has worked wonders for me for around five years. I've blogged when I've been heartbroken, hopeful, happy; dizzy, disinterested, disheartened; confused, complaining and carefree. It's always helped, and not just because a guy I fancied would happen upon a post written at 3am in a drunken haze of longing about my love for his perfect ratio of face to beard and then proceed to contact me - or because a girl I particularly disliked realised my spiteful totally-unsubtle poetry was aimed almost exclusively at her - no, it helped because it was somewhere to go and somewhere to let it all out, to find some supportive creative voices all around, and to be myself.
I had no problem writing post after post about my 'boy troubles' back when that meant a guy in my Drama class was deliciously unattainable, a gay friend had no idea he was gay yet (he got there eventually), or a guy I'd locked eyes with in the canteen hadn't held my gaze as long as I'd have liked him to. I'm always tempted to delete these posts; erase all evidence of the scribbles I am now so ashamed of it sometimes keeps me up at night, scrolling through them. Even now, writing this, I worry people will get curious and go back to 2010 when I didn't know what love was and thought a helix piercing, a Hollister shirt and a shabby market stall scarf made me look alternative - or revisit 2012 me who could not handle her drink and desperately needed validation from anyone and everyone no matter what the cost...please don't. 2014 me was alright, pretty badass actually, check her out. Or even 2013, she's making me giggle when she appears on Timehop these days.
And yet...I'm facing more serious problems and personal struggles lately, and I feel I mustn't, simply cannot, write about them. I'm sadder than I've ever been, but also happier. I'm stuck in an open-ended temporary situation that I fear will never change, and I'm fighting with a mindset that doesn't seem to want to let me push forward and change my story. My little job, my means to an end, is becoming my life and I never wanted that to happen. My friends are mostly my colleagues - which is actually fairly rad, as my colleagues are perfectly hilarious and fun, but also means to some extent I'm counting on them and the team we make up, so when one of them leaves I really truly feel...left. My single bed isn't so bad, but I sometimes feel so embarrassed about my living situation, which then makes me feel guilty because I'm lucky enough to have a family who take me in and feed me up (related: I am now much heavier than I was when I lived alone) and don't charge me for their loving services, because they know I am a temporary resident finding her feet and then hopefully a path to walk them down.
I'm not asking for sympathy; I'm not asking for attention of any kind. Any support is welcome and all that, but really I'm just looking for a place to get these feelings and pains out and free. Writing is my therapy. It distracts me from my dreaded Sads; it lifts me up and reminds me that I do, in fact, have a purpose and at least one skill besides making a delicious extra-dry mocha. I really need that, these days.
I forget writing is therapeutic. I forget it's my blog; I can write whatever I want and I'm in control. I even forget sometimes that writing is what I do, what I want to do and what I should do. I'll try and find solace in my smartphone; in social media, in other people's lives and their pretty pictures of this tree and that outfit, in gaming apps where I humiliate myself trying to use a triple word score and a double letter space with my pitiful line-up of tiles, even in spending money when I really shouldn't be on things I don't and won't need. I grow immensely frustrated and just downright sad because I can't find anything to inspire me, I can't find any outlet for my feelings, and I can't figure out where I fit in anywhere.
Then I remember that I've always had and will always have my blog. Having my own URL, my own space on the world wide web, has worked wonders for me for around five years. I've blogged when I've been heartbroken, hopeful, happy; dizzy, disinterested, disheartened; confused, complaining and carefree. It's always helped, and not just because a guy I fancied would happen upon a post written at 3am in a drunken haze of longing about my love for his perfect ratio of face to beard and then proceed to contact me - or because a girl I particularly disliked realised my spiteful totally-unsubtle poetry was aimed almost exclusively at her - no, it helped because it was somewhere to go and somewhere to let it all out, to find some supportive creative voices all around, and to be myself.
I had no problem writing post after post about my 'boy troubles' back when that meant a guy in my Drama class was deliciously unattainable, a gay friend had no idea he was gay yet (he got there eventually), or a guy I'd locked eyes with in the canteen hadn't held my gaze as long as I'd have liked him to. I'm always tempted to delete these posts; erase all evidence of the scribbles I am now so ashamed of it sometimes keeps me up at night, scrolling through them. Even now, writing this, I worry people will get curious and go back to 2010 when I didn't know what love was and thought a helix piercing, a Hollister shirt and a shabby market stall scarf made me look alternative - or revisit 2012 me who could not handle her drink and desperately needed validation from anyone and everyone no matter what the cost...please don't. 2014 me was alright, pretty badass actually, check her out. Or even 2013, she's making me giggle when she appears on Timehop these days.
And yet...I'm facing more serious problems and personal struggles lately, and I feel I mustn't, simply cannot, write about them. I'm sadder than I've ever been, but also happier. I'm stuck in an open-ended temporary situation that I fear will never change, and I'm fighting with a mindset that doesn't seem to want to let me push forward and change my story. My little job, my means to an end, is becoming my life and I never wanted that to happen. My friends are mostly my colleagues - which is actually fairly rad, as my colleagues are perfectly hilarious and fun, but also means to some extent I'm counting on them and the team we make up, so when one of them leaves I really truly feel...left. My single bed isn't so bad, but I sometimes feel so embarrassed about my living situation, which then makes me feel guilty because I'm lucky enough to have a family who take me in and feed me up (related: I am now much heavier than I was when I lived alone) and don't charge me for their loving services, because they know I am a temporary resident finding her feet and then hopefully a path to walk them down.
I'm not asking for sympathy; I'm not asking for attention of any kind. Any support is welcome and all that, but really I'm just looking for a place to get these feelings and pains out and free. Writing is my therapy. It distracts me from my dreaded Sads; it lifts me up and reminds me that I do, in fact, have a purpose and at least one skill besides making a delicious extra-dry mocha. I really need that, these days.
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