An imaginary conversation about being scared

Don’t you wonder what makes people react the way they do?

Sometimes.

Man of few words…

Is there something else you wanted to know about my opinion?

Isn’t there always?

Yes.

So?

Maybe you should tell me who the people are that you think I should be wondering about.

Semi-rhetorical people.

Uh…

Maybe you should ask what the people are doing that I think they might be reacting to when I ask about it.

One second you can be painfully direct, and the next you are puzzlingly oblique.

Thank you. You are shaking your head, aren’t you?

Because you are really something.

You know, you sounded like you meant that in an admiring way!

I did. You are a wonder. It is always interesting to talk to you when your mind gets really going. Not comprehensible, but interesting.

So this is what I was wondering about: sometimes people say one thing, but then their actions seem to indicate that maybe they don’t really mean it.

Some people aren’t always honest.

True, but that isn’t really what I wonder about.

No?

No. What I wonder about is that when I ask about the apparent discrepancy people react in very different ways.

Is it a discrepancy that makes you angry?

Not really. It’s more like something I don’t understand. And you know I am trying to be more clear about that kind of stuff.

I know. You’ve been trying pretty hard.

And I know sometimes when I am direct, people think I am mean.

Not people who know you.

Some people who know me. So I try to be direct, but still not mean, but sometimes they still feel like I am trying to attack them or accuse them of some sort of evil doing or something. I don’t know.

Why do you think that is?

That is the part I wonder about.

The only part?

Well, no, because I still am wondering about whatever the original thing was that made me ask them the question in the first place. Then they get mad and I don’t know either thing and then someone is also mad at me. I feel like there must be something wrong with my communication skills.

Or maybe it’s their communication skills. Theirs. Not yours. Maybe they are acting mad to deflect you.

Why would they do that?

Because they know you will assume that you have done something wrong and leave them alone if they get mad at you. Or because they feel guilty about whatever it is that maybe they haven’t been completely honest about. Or because they think the best offense is a good defense. Or because they are afraid.

Afraid of me?

Or of what you might do if they tell you what it is you asked them about.

Shouldn’t they be afraid of what I might do if they don’t tell me?

Maybe so.

It seems silly.

It is silly. Especially if they know how hard you are trying to be more open.

So you think it’s a sign of fear?

That is a possibility. They might also just not care.

Well, that would suck because that’s kind of the whole point of what I am asking them.

Yes.

So basically, the options go from “they don’t care at all, and they are lying about it when they say they do, but they won’t admit it because they don’t care enough to” all the way to “they care a lot, but they are afraid of losing me by being honest?”

Pretty much.

And the only way for me to find out is…

To ask, and hope the answer is honest.

Which I have done.

Right.

So…

You’re kind of fucked on this one.

Shit.

If you ask me things, I will give you a real answer.

Thanks.

Any time.

So would it be appropriate of me to send them a card with a picture of a chicken on it going “bok bok bok?”

Bok bok bok?

You know, the universal expression for being a chicken?

It would not be appropriate, but it would be funny.

So I guess I will just have to keep wondering.

I’d save your wondering for something more worthy of your time.

Like what?

Like wondering who Tim Burton will possibly be able to be with who has messier hair than Helena Bonham Carter.

I have started wondering about that already! I even tweeted with Ann Landers’s daughter about it.

You did not.

I did! She voiced some sadness that with their breakup she was questioning if messy hair could be a basis for a lasting relationship. I replied that I was a bit concerned about that myself and she told me to have faith.

Ann Landers’s daughter told you to have faith in the power of messy hair?

She did.

What about no hair?

I have hair. I didn’t ask about the trials and tribulations of the hairless.

Very selfish of you.

I keep telling you!

Hush. Put down your iPad and go to sleep.

OK. Night.

More than words?

Everything that goes into my mouth seems to make me fat, everything that comes out of my mouth embarrasses me.
–Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez

There are worse prisons than words.
–Carlos Ruiz Zafón/The Shadow of the Wind

Last year I wrote over 168,000 words.

To put it in terms of quantity, that is about the same number of words as there are in “Tess of the D’Urbervilles,” or about 480 pages. Of course, what I write is in no way comparable to Thomas Hardy. It’s raw, unedited, un researched, and…what is a way to say it that doesn’t sound like I think it’s crap? Trivial? Casual? Introspective? Trite? Overly personal? Inconsequential?

Well, maybe it is kind of crappy, but it’s my crap, and there is a lot of it. I may not be profound, but I am prolific. I am the Stephen King of the emo blog. Actually, I like Stephen King–let’s say I am the Barbara Cartland of the emo blog. With better hair and makeup, I hope.

In the last 6 months of 2013, I wrote just over 81,000 words. So I have kept up my pace over time. If there is some sort of worth to be found in the mere act of producing a word count, then the blog has worth. It is worth something, to me anyway. It is one of the only things I have done consistently for any length of time that requires effort and discipline. I publish something every day, even if it means going without sleep. I post when I am sick. I post when I am drunk. I post when I am on a crying jag, or when I am happy.

It seems a little odd that I persevere with it considering that there is really no purpose to it, except to help me think. Most days I enjoy it, but there are certainly a lot of days when the process is painful, especially if I am writing something that stirs up something I need to work through. Certainly no one would care if I skipped a day or a month or stopped entirely. Only a handful of people read me, and it isn’t the sort of stuff you’d want to read unless you know me. It’s like not this serves some sort of greater purpose.

So at some point, I should figure out why I am doing it, if I want to take it in a different direction or stop entirely. Less words, more…substance? Some sort of goal to reach beyond just…more words?

Or is having a sounding board a good thing? I suspect if I didn’t have the self-imposed pressure to post, I would not think about many of the things I do. Which might lead to both mental and emotional atrophy. Or it might lead to greater mental health if thinking about issues is something which puts too much of a focus on them.

Since I feel so much better since starting to write, I am going with the “it’s good for me” theory, and completely disregarding how many other things that are bad for me make me feel good. This is written as I finish off a pint of IPA after singing night, and wish I had a cigarette between my lips and a good looking stranger in my bed, so I know what I am talking about.

Like with everything else going on, I will just have to see where it goes.

It’s my thing. It can be whatever I want it to be. If it’s yet another vice to add to my collection, so be it.

It’s mine, regardless.

Getting over being an emotional fraidy cat

While looking for a specific thing I wrote in a blog a while back, I came across this post about change and moving forward. There have been several before this one and since. It’s been sort of my theme for the last couple of years, I suppose.

Because I was stuck.

Oh, I was happy enough. Comfortably numb might be a better description. I wasn’t feeling a lot, and hadn’t for a very long time. I didn’t really know how shut down I was.

I remember the specific moment it came to me that I was (for the lack of a less melodramatic term) dying on the inside. It was Summer. I was out on the patio reading, messaging intermittently with a friend, and listening to music. This lyric from an Aimee Mann song jumped out at me and knocked me on my metaphorical ass:

So here I’m sitting in my car at the same old stop light.
I keep waiting for a change, but I don’t know what.
So red turns into green, turning into yellow.
But I’m just frozen here on the same old spot.
And all I have to do is press the pedal.
But I’m not.

There had been a lot of thinking about change for quite a while before this, but for some reason, this was the moment where it really went from just thought into realizing I needed to do something about it. It’s when I knew that if I didn’t do something soon, I was going to lose everything about myself. Everything that made me who I am was slipping away, and I was just letting it happen.

I didn’t even know there was anything wrong, but I had been an emotional fraidy cat my whole life. Hiding from myself and everyone else. Never feeling good enough for anything or anybody.

After a lot of thinking and counseling and thinking some more, I stepped on the pedal. Or maybe it was really off the edge. That was over 7 months ago. I wasn’t sure where I was going, and I am still not, but I knew I couldn’t stay where I was any more.

Where am I?

Here.
Now.

Learning to sing again.
Learning to be honest on the inside again.
Learning to trust everyone as a default.
Figuring things out.
How I want to live, what sort of people I want to have in my life.
Teaching myself to talk to strangers.
Learning not to be afraid of people, including myself.
Learning that doing things I am uncomfortable with is good for me.
Figuring out what I want and what I don’t.
Doing things just because they scare me.
Teaching myself to ask for what I want.
Learning to reach out to people.
Doing things I have never done before.
Taking steps to become my self again.
Whoever that is.

Financially, it has been challenging. I have no back up now, and that scares me. I will deal with it. I don’t have a choice.

Emotionally, it has been painful. Before I would have avoided the pain. Now I am learning to feel it, deal with it and move through it. It hasn’t been an easy process, but I wouldn’t change it.

I am looking forward to seeing where the road leads.

Wherever it goes, I will be happy. I will have family and friends who I love. Who love me back.

I won’t ever arrive at a destination, and that’s fine because I’ve learned there isn’t one. It’s all about the road.

Forward.