Anyone who knows me in real life can attest to the truth of that statement. In the blogosphere (ooh, fun made-up word), though, I tend to try to show myself as either a Serious Writer (you can tell how serious by the capital letters) or a funny, kooky person. At times, I am both, so trying to limit myself to one or the other only results in a lopsided view. It stifles me, because it means that I almost have to become a character in order to write, and I have so very little time or energy for that, and if I can't be fully myself all the time at the age of thirty-one, then what is the point?
I've been thinking about writing, and how I'd like to get back to it, and how I really don't have an excuse for not doing it, and how I feel better when I do, and my, isn't this sentence getting on in characters? Really, though, it makes me feel better to empty out some of the whirling, sometimes nonsensical matter that rattles around in my brain. So my intent (notice I said "intent," for I am, as previously stated, an inconsistent weirdo) is to try to post something every day, as myself. Not the me I want other people to think I am, but the me I am, the me that won't change, the essential me with warts and awkward phrases and bad language.
I have trouble doing things for myself. I don't mean that I'm incapacitated in any way, just that I have a tendency to let myself fall by the wayside. I don't take proper care of myself, including caring for my mental state, because I immerse myself in other people's needs first. I think this is a very stereotypical female trait. I am a fixer. I listen and give advice and cook and clean and worry and do and go and see, because it is how I show the people I love that I love them and want them to be happy and well-cared for. Yet the things I need to do for myself, I let slide. I know that I feel better and sleep better when I exercise and when I write, but I do not do these things with any regularity. I know I feel better when I eat well and in response to actual hunger, but stress or depression or outright boredom send me to the junk food aisle of the supermarket. Which, of course, sends the whole shame spiral turning and the vicious cycle begins again.
I read half a book today, a book called "My Unfinished Business". I recommend it, based on what I read. (And I'm sure you're thinking, "and this relates to anything else you've said how, exactly? I do have a point. Really.) It was written by a workaholic who was fired from his job and was bitter and unhappy, and as he started sorting through the boxes of things he'd accumulated from his life, he found several mementos that reminded him of things he'd always meant to do, but for which he'd never made time. He decided to devote the next year of his life to doing those things, which for him, included (among other things) contacting a once-beloved aunt he hadn't seen in at least 15 years, sending condolences to a childhood friend whose daughter was killed in combat, and repaying a debt that, as it turned out, had been forgotten by the loaner. Because of all of the connections he made, he was able to assuage the fear and guilt and pain associated with those things he'd left undone. He became happier, felt better about himself, and brought joy to others. The book resonated with me, because I am a listmaker. And I am a guilt hoarder and sometimes forgetful and inconsistent, so I have a mental list full of Things I Should Have Done But Have Not (Because I Am a Terrible Person), and it gnaws at my psyche. This is probably at least part of why I'm an insomniac. Because not only do I have old and new song lyrics running through my head at night, not only do I have lists of things I need to do, not only do I have project ideas, but I also have these Undone Things that, because they are left undone, are creating mental trash instead of being done and enriching my life. So I am going to cross those things off my mental list--and you're witness, so you must hold me accountable.
For now, I'm not going to write down what's on my mental list, mainly because I am tired (see? I got out of bed to write because I couldn't go to sleep, and now I'm ready to go back to bed), but I will share it. Because I'm coming back here, and I'm posting, and I don't care if no one ever comments, or if anyone reads any of it at all, because I need to do it for myself.
I do believe that I've rambled on quite enough for one evening, and I'm not even sure if this was in any way a coherent blog, but I did what I set out to do this time, so I'm counting it as a success.
