Memoirs and mostly true stories of other people’s miseries and their triumphs over them. I didn’t realize the pattern of memoir porn I had in my collection until I started my Goodreads account. In it are stories of junkies, rape victims, childhood incests, paranoid schizophrenics, and serial killers. Of those who are so overwhelmed with life they can’t bear to see what happens in their own, suicide. Those who can’t face the day without a drink or who love their husbands despite the beatings, children who don’t know their real name, and parents who abuse their own children just for attention. What do these painful stories do for me? They show me that my life isn’t really all that bad. That despite how low I can get, things can ALWAYS be worse. In fact, I don’t even have an interesting life story so tragic that I must write about it (much less get it published and have thousands of people buy it). I am so very ordinary, so very mundane, and uninteresting that I gravitate 95% of the time to people with the talents I envy: artists, musicians, writers, and the like. Show me interesting, insightful, artistic, genius, and I will present to you your biggest fan.
So, hit me with any tale of woe along with a subsequent triumph and I will return the favor by relishing in the deliciousness of a story other than mine.
And you know why? No one who knows me would believe it was written by me. And I’d never want them to know about it either. Those that know me think I’m happy. That I smile all the time. Am fun. Laid back. Never stressed. A social butterfly, extremely outgoing. Always. So. Fucking. Happy. At work, every phone call sounds like I’m talking to an old friend. Bad news never gets me down. My workload never overwhelms me. Bad days? They don’t happen to me. I wake up positive and bubbly and stay that way until bed time. A great mom who loves her girls. A fiercely independent woman who never looks for love.
They wouldn’t believe me if I told them I have the most extreme case of social anxiety that forces me to take a shot or down a quick glass of wine before I go anywhere, even just to dinner with a friend. What are we supposed to talk about? I don’t have anything to say. What if they ask about this, or that, or if I can’t be witty and entertaining. What the hell am I supposed to talk about ::gulp::?!
They’d say I was lying if I told them I second guess everything I do. EVERYTHING. They would call my bluff if I told them I can’t bear to speak to anyone in my house anymore. Or that I feel incapable of being loved. Or that I feel like a terrible mom. Or that I’ve slept with more men than they could fathom just trying to find my replacement father-figure. Or that I hate the weekends because it amplifies how alone I feel. Or that I have a million journals that I’ve started and stopped bc I can’t actually tell anyone how I feel about life? How I would rather hide under my blanket than to actually take an active role in anything?
I’m not suicidal. Not even close. Am I depressed? Probably. I have a journal entry from just a couple months ago that would make this one sound like it was written by a stranger. So I know this is temporary. I also know this will probably happen again.
Bottom line is, no one knows about this blog. I hope they never do. I never want to be seen as weak. And wow, do I sound pathetic right now.
Have you ever felt like you were somewhere between extremely boring and absolutely batshit crazy? There is nothing diagnosable about me. Yet I know something isn’t quite right in my brain. No meds that will cure me, yet just existing everyday doesn’t seem to work either. Fucking hell. What to do. I go back and forth between being super motivated and crotchety because no one else in this damn house will do any fucking chores, to the super lazy and depressed one with my head under a blanket wishing I could just die. And it doesn’t just happen once a month. No, it’s pretty much once every week or so. I obsess over every thing, yet could give a shit about most things. I can’t even bear to have conversations with people a lot of the time and would prefer losing myself in a book, or journaling, or playing some mindless game on my phone. I’m tired of worrying about him. Why he didn’t call. Why he doesn’t care. Yet I can’t stop thinking about him. Why he led me to think he wanted more than just a Saturday night special with a very ordinary single mom. And just when I’ve convinced myself that from now on I’ll worry only about myself and my kids, there my brain goes, obsessing over the entire situation again. I’m tired. Yet why can’t I sleep. I’m over this, yet I can’t move on. I need help, yet there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. Why can’t I be one of those women who didn’t think about the WHYs and just went about life in my own little bubble, accepting every situation for exactly what it was and having zero expectation for anything more? I want to be blind to it all. To be so shallow that I can’t fathom anything better. Sometimes I really do believe that ignorance is bliss. Knowledge is killing me slowly.
Four years of being each other’s SOS, and subsequent rebounds when the other had been dreadfully dumped, he and I decided to try and be a “real” couple. Weekdays would be spent at our respective homes, while weekends were booked with his late night gigs as a drummer and me tagging along for support (which usually meant me sitting around at a bar, smoky or otherwise, on the sidelines watching everyone else get drunk). Long story short, this arrangement didn’t last long. Being a single mom of two didn’t give me much down time and spending my precious weekends sitting at a bar mostly sober while listening to music I really didn’t care for and watching 20-somethings drink themselves into oblivion soon got extremely tiresome. I started some silly fight over something barely worth remembering and that was the last weekend he stayed over. While doing the laundry later that week, I made two of the most wonderful discoveries! Johnny Cash and Fatal T-Shirts, sized XXL. They make the best pajamas!
PS: I’m not sure if he realizes they’re missing. It’s been a year and I never plan on letting him know where they’ve been all this time. Did I say that? Oops!
It’s not to tell an imaginary story or to string together some lines of amazing poetry. I write to remember. To get the crazies out without throwing them out at some innocent. I write to show my future self that I have grown from where I thought I could never. That evolution happens. And when I’m in a better place, I oftentimes can’t even go back to the things I’ve written, or worse (better?), I don’t even recognize the voice behind the words. I do this to prove that I’ve been here before and conquered it. I’ve been through worse and have persevered. I’ve had better and shouldn’t settle. I’ve felt raw emotion and haven’t become numb. And I write to remind myself that I haven’t just fallen into this ridiculous obsession with love. It’s always been here, the trepidation then intrigue, excitement then fear, resolve then rejection. The abandonment whether real or perceived. The strength to keep going. And the secret me that got through it all without anyone else knowing. I write to remind myself I’m human and beyond my super confident exterior, I’m little more than a vulnerable silly, gullible girl who keeps searching for her ideal replica of the father who left her so young. Would I even know if I found him? That’s the big joke, I guess. Probably shouldn’t have said that.