This is a calling card
Maybe it will be a farewell note
The poison fountain pen now requires the antidote
And if I avert your gaze
And I should become a shrinking flower
Just punch me on the arm
This could be our finest hour
–Elvis Costello
It will come as a surprise to no one that I use the blog as a journal. Those who recognize themselves in it might wonder what is wrong with me sometimes. I wonder that about myself sometimes too, and this is part of what I do to figure it out. Writing helps me think.
The people who have gotten the worst of it here have somewhat ironically been the best sports about it. This has always fascinated me. I wonder if they just don’t read it? (They do) I wonder if they just don’t care what I say? (They probably do) Or if they know I am just trying to figure things out and are cutting me slack about the blog that they can’t manage in real life? (No idea, and that sentence doesn’t even make sense)
Of course if I meet new people and write about them, they never know. That is a whole lot easier because I don’t have to take their feelings into consideration. If I’m writing about a real person who might read what I write it is harder. It’s also hard to balance frankness and kindness. Maybe I’m dating someone new, and a past love might find that hard to read. Should I not write about it? Generally in the past I have, but I do try to consider the feelings of people who might be hurt by what I say.
I don’t think I have ever written something about someone that came as a shock to them. If I have and it was you, let me know.
Why can’t I just write my thoughts and feelings in a nice private notebook like a sane person? Because shut up. Or, to put it a little differently, because knowing that I will post something makes me think about things, or try to, in a way that is a little more organized. A little more dispassionate.
Even so, a lot of the things I write never get posted. They can’t be, they’re too naked. Too mean. Too personal. Too emotional. Too identifiable. Too something. Anyone who remembers that I have written about blow jobs and masturbation might wonder what I consider too personal to post. It’s like porn–I know it when I see it. Often it’s either too overtly mean or it would get them in some kind of trouble.
The more emotionally turbulent the times, the more I find I write things that can’t be posted. Like now. I probably abandon about 1/3 of my posts at the moment. Hey, job stress plus relationship stress plus future weight loss surgery which might be impacted by the reason behind the job stress equals one very emotional Scorpio woman. At least one person is really lucky I have scruples and judgment about this in spite of the stress. They can thank me later.
I end up reworking a lot of the unused pieces when the worst stress has passed. When things feel less personal, or maybe just when I have been able to work out my feelings a little better. Sometimes I use paragraphs or ideas somewhere else and delete the rest.
Does it help? It does. A lot. But sometimes before it helps, it hurts.
Change comes with introspection, and change is generally not much fun.
My introspection just gets published on the Internet for anyone in the world to read. Does that make it extroversion?