I blog because I can. OK, that’s a flippant answer, which is what I do best–flippancy. In the beginning, I started blogging because I felt like I had a whole lot of shit to say, and I didn’t want to wear out my friends by ranting and railing at them until I turned blue in my face. They were deeply appreciative of it.
I envisioned blogging about politics because they fucking kill me, they really do. I would be a snarky, lefty political blog that was both erudite and amusing. Then I realized that political blogging is hard work (what with all the fact-checking that one is supposed to do), so I decided to scrap that. I would comment on politics as I saw fit, but I wouldn’t make it a daily habit.
Instead, I felt more a need to blog about personal shit because, after all, my blog is all about me. It says so right in the title. My blog, my domain. My thoughts get jumbled when they are in my head, so it helps to write it down. To my surprise, people wanted to read what I had to write, and that only propelled me to write even more.
My goal was to present my issues in an amusing and erudite way. Even my posts about my depression were eloquent because I have had dealt with it for so fucking long. I know that I have a way with words, and I am proud of my ability to weave a tale that engages even as it meanders aimlessly along the way.
Now. To the crux of my post today. But first, the video of the day. It’s Depeche Mode’s Wrong, and a h/t to my fake-hubby #1, Tattoosydney for sharing it with me over at BJ. I had to link the official video because embedding is disabled, and you really need to click on the link because it’s the official video that resonates with me.* Meanwhile, here is a live version of the song.
As more people started commenting on my blog, I realized another reason I was blogging and posting my blog entries (as opposed to just writing for myself) is because I kept thinking how much it would have meant to me to have a blog like this to read when I was a teenager. Ok, it wouldn’t have been a blog because we didn’t have blogs back in the stone ages, but if I had been able to read anything like this blog entry (and yes, I’m linking to that post again, damn it. It’s a really good one) before I started dating, I would have been better prepared for sex. I most likely wouldn’t have gotten into the situation I did in Thailand, and I certainly would have gotten over the guilt at being highly-sexual earlier.
See, back then, good (Christian) girls didn’t have sex. Good (Christian) girls didn’t write about sex. And, certainly, good (Christian) girls didn’t write about how much they enjoyed fucking someone(s) who wasn’t (weren’t) their husbands. I was heavily invested in being a good (Christian) girl being as brainwashed as I was, and the conflict between my upbringing and my extremely hedonistic nature caused me much grief.
So. I had more flashbacks in taiji class this past Saturday. This time, though, they were movies instead of stills. I had a substitute (who was a great teacher, and the rest of the class was excellent), so I didn’t get to discuss it with Julie at the time. I just breathed deeply through my tears and tried to root myself. The rest of the class was great, and I thought I was fine with it. I went grocery shopping at the co-op next door, and then I walked outside in 38° wearing a t-shirt and sweats. I drove home with the windows open, and that made me happy.
When I got home, though, I crashed–and I crashed hard. All the depression, all the negative beliefs, all the stuff I had thought I had overcome came surging back. I was overwhelmed by the intensity of the debilitating obliteration that was coursing through my body. It was a palpable hit that felt…well…really shitty.
I need to break here for a minute to add something. I haven’t blogged about this because it’s so fucking raw. As I mentioned earlier, I pride myself on writing erudite and amusing blog entries. Barring that, I expect them to be eloquent. Melancholia is a beautiful word, even if it’s an ugly thing. The words I now have to use are just ugly. Incest. Molestation. Sexual abuse. Ugly, ugly, ugly words.
Plus, I have no amusing patter about this topic. I have no wisdom, and I certainly have no eloquence. I am raw and disjointed, and I hate showing that side of me.
If you knew me in my previous incarnation, you most likely would not have known that I was severely depressed. I hid it extremely well for the most part, and when I couldn’t hide it, I withdrew. Only my really close friends knew what I was going through, and, of course, my therapist.
If you met me at a party, you would think I was charming, funny, raunchy, amusing, and perhaps intoxicating. My public persona was deliberately created in order to help me get through life. The problem was, after a time, I was compelled to put on that mask every time I left the house, whether I really wanted to or not.
I think of my blog like that in some ways. I have been as honest and open as I can, but I have also hidden behind my words to a certain extent. Most of the things I’ve written about are issues I’ve dealt with for most of my life. I’ve written about all of them in the past, so I can write about them now with a certain ease.
This flashback shit is new to me and very raw. I hate it because it exposes everything that is ugly, messy, disgusting, and wrong with me.
I am afraid that the new me is either another mask or too fragile to handle this sustained pressure.
To top things off, memories of my horrible relationship I had in Thailand are flooding my mind as well, mingling with my childhood memories, which I am still not completely convinced are real. For the rest of Saturday and for most of Sunday, my mind was pelted with negative memories. Mercifully, memories of the positive sex I’ve had in my life would show up once in awhile to conquer the negative memories, which allowed my mind a temporary respite from the horror.
I talked to friends Saturday, but then I did what I do best–I hid. I withdrew into my shell, hunkered down, put on a happy face, and tried desperately to go numb. My mind screamed at me to cut, to burn, to find someone to abuse me in order to reinforce my negative beliefs, to binge and purge, to do something, anything to numb the pain and make it all go the fuck away.
With all the positive emotions I’ve been truly experiencing in the last year, joy, love, happiness, peace, I had forgotten that I would have to feel the negative emotions as well–such as rage, despair, agony, and white-hot, soul-searing pain.
The pain consumed me. The demons came swarming out and did their damnedest to convince me that the only way to end the pain was to stop feeling once again. I shut myself down the best I could, and the soul-deadening numbness settled over me again. However, the mask, it no longer fits quite right, so the pain was still there, lingering, underneath the numbness.
In addition, the numbness felt worse than the pain because it wasn’t real. It wasn’t–anything. I was locked up again inside a cage of my own creation, and I could feel the real me suffocating.
The irony is, the little girl in me wants to grow up. She thinks it’s time. It’s the adult me who DOES NOT WANT TO FUCKING DEAL WITH THIS.
I want to rip my head off and scour my brain with lye so I can forget what happened to me.
I want to rip my heart out so I can stop the pain from crippling me.
I want to rip my brains out so I can stop thinking all the fucking time.
I have talked to more friends since. I have a therapist appointment tomorrow morning. Ironically, I had just decided to go from seeing her three times a month to every other week when the flashbacks hit me out of the blue. I am going to chill with my best friend tomorrow night. I am going to post this blog entry despite the fact that I think it sucks.
I hate showing weakness. I hate displaying the ugly bits from my life in anything less than an amusing light. I hate how small and frightened and disgusting I feel right now.
The only silver-and-black lining in the cloud is that this time, when my friends tell me that my negative self-beliefs are bullshit, there is a very small part of me who agrees.
Otherwise, I got nothing.
*I’ve made the wrong choices for most of my life. I struggled to free myself from my demons, even as I had a mask of happiness soldered to my face. Then, just when I finally break free from the demons, I am hit by a bus and killed. Or in my case, sent back to hell again.