Why I Blog/I Am Raw

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.

12 Responses to Why I Blog/I Am Raw

  1. 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.
    It’s not pointing out what is wrong with YOU, but what is wrong with those who have fucked with you. You reacted to something insane in ways to protect yourself.


    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.
    I for one refuse to see surviving anything horrific, as your weakness. I understand totally what you are saying, but if you were weak, you wouldn’t still be with us Minna.

    It’s also good that your mask doesn’t fit the same. You’re outgrowing it. Sometimes, the little girl is stronger than you give her credit for and she will drag the grown up you on a wild ride till she gets what she wants.

  2. It’s not pointing out what is wrong with YOU, but what is wrong with those who have fucked with you. You reacted to something insane in ways to protect yourself.

    This. SillyWhabbit is exactly right. And what happened to you, ugly, messy, disgusting as it may be, is emphatically not at all anything wrong with you.

    And your negative self-beliefs are bullshit, also.

  3. It’s not about weakness, it’s about building new muscles you’re not used to using (and maybe didn’t know you had).

    Just like you can’t just expect to bench press 500 pounds the first time you walk into a gym (well, maybe you can expect that, but if you do you’re setting yourself up for disappointment & hernia), you can’t expect to suddenly be able to deal with all this stuff flawlessly after decades of keeping under wraps.

    Your old self and your demons can call this weakness ’till you’re blue in the face (and thank God I managed to work that phrase into my comment!), but I call bullshit on them. You’re building strength… it doesn’t matter if it starts slowly, what matters is that it starts and that you keep building it up.

    And don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to be witty, amusing, or snarky later… and it’ll feel better when you can do it from a position of strength.

    Need more? I got more — my cat Sitka says you need tough love and he wants you to share this with your kitties (but maybe don’t pay too much attention to the goony flash animation): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TWeP5TSz1ZI

  4. whabs, I know you know what I’m going through. Thank you for your unwavering support and your friendship. Yeah, the little girl is smarter than I am. Maybe I should listen to her.

    Gregory, your fierce belief in me has helped me more than you know. And, you made me laugh with your second line (your imitation of La Palina). I needed that as well.

    Alex, I’m glad to see you worked ‘blue in the face’ into your comment. You have a wisdom far beyond your years, and you always choose great music for me. Though, the end of the video did make me cry. Give Sitka a scritch for me, he deserves one.

  5. Minna, I wrote this in 1995.

    So this is what it means to be HUMAN,
    to be real.
    This aching wound
    that cannot be healed,
    of loneliness,
    and helplessness,
    though the lenses
    of childhood hurts,
    at times
    it seems
    I am

    Who would choose
    as Life?

    No wonder people try to fill this hurt
    with possessions,
    with food,
    with drugs,
    with gods,
    with words,
    with thoughts,
    with touches.

    I run
    to many things
    when I run from myself.
    And yet,
    this pain,
    this ache,
    this loneliness,
    this neediness,
    this helplessness
    is Me,
    my shadow,
    to embrace.


    I am sorry you are hurting so right now. SillyWhabbit is right, but that doesn’t make it any easier to go through. Erudite, witty, amusing is fine but this is Real, Authentic, and Whole.

  6. Hang in there. I couldn’t agree with Whabs more. You are a survivor of the bad things, not the perpetrator. Blaming yourself is what your abusers trained you to do.

    I know that healing is hard and unpleasant work. Sometimes, I just wish I could sleep through my own healing, because I don’t feel like working so damn hard some days. I can certainly understand if you feel that way.

    Hope your therapy session eases your pain a bit.

  7. Crystal, thank you so much for posting your poem here. It’s beautiful and haunting at the same time. I am deeply touched. You are right that it isn’t easy. It really isn’t easy at all.

    Choolie, right on. I wouldn’t mind healing if it didn’t mean so much fucking pain. My therapy session helped a great deal. I know I have to face this, and I know I have to face it now. I JUST DON’T WANT TO DO IT! I know you can relate, and that helps me tremendously (so does the taiji).

  8. Am I the only one who read: “It’s Depeche Mode’s Wrong, and a h/t to my fake-hubby #1, Tattoosydney for sharing it with me over at BJ” as ‘over a BJ’?

  9. “It’s Depeche Mode’s Wrong, and a h/t to my fake-hubby #1, Tattoosydney for sharing it with me over a BJ?”

    Now there’s an image.

    I’m sorry to hear you are feeling bad, wife. Hang in there. I know you are strong enough to get through. Unlike Stepford-Minna (who would be short circuiting right now), real Minna can conjure up the demons, summon up the rage, the contempt and the pain, and then laugh in their faces.

    (and where the hell did this number 2 fake husband come in? Do I even get consulted? Is he cute? *hee*)

  10. BJ = Balloon Juice, a site Minna enjoys.
    What you’re thinking snee, is another thread.

    I’m telling ya Minna…go watch Searching for Angela Shelton. I link to it in my VodPod Sidebar.

    You know, when people do fucked up and wrong things to people, it is usually to someone we know well. It’s such a violation. Yet, we can come out stronger.

  11. snee, you crack me the fuck up, and I so so so need that right now. And, whabs is right. That’s a whole nother thread!

    Tattoosydney, fake-hubby #1! Good to see you. Your love and support is one of the reasons I fake-married you (along with your fabulous cooking skills). Oh, and your ability to make me laugh helps, too.

    Fake-hubby #2 is Yutsano over at BALLOON JUICE. He’s cute and gay, too. Story of my life. And, no, you were not consulted. I think you were too busy planning your wedding with your real hubby.

    whabs, I do enjoy BJ. Damn. Now the boys have me doing it.

    I want to watch, whabs. I am just not sure if I’m ready for it yet. I hope I emerge stronger from all this. I just don’t have the faith y’all have.