I don't like this thing

I really hate writing here. Didn't want to start it. Don't like doing it. Can't figure out what sort of voice it is that I need to have here.

I try to write this as if it is my journal. As if I am writing for me. That makes some sense to me. Seems to serve what I was told was the purpose of doing this -- get my thoughts out of my head and out where they wouldn't keep making me crazy...

Except a journal is private. Or at the least is only shared with the One who owns the head in which the thoughts written there tend to swirl. So the "voice" of the journal is that of a sort of internal musing -- talking to oneself. Whatever goes on inside is fair game in journal writing and can be spilled out onto the pages, even ought to be, without a whole lot of self-censorship.

The benefit to this blog, nominally I figured, as opposed to the listserves, where I also write sometimes, was that I could just write WHATEVER without the caveat of having to be "nice" or "polite" or "happy" or "mature" or "respectful" or whatever all the other rules are about writing that apply in those fora.

Except that I know you are out there. Some of you. I'm not sure how many, but I know you are there. So, even though I try to write for me, I can't help feeling you there, and I guess that's OK, but I'm needing to ignore you. I just have to. Or I can't do this. At least not in any way that makes it worth doing... because if I start editing to make things seem "nice" or to soft-pedal the way I AM on any given day or in any moment, then this isn't worth the time to bother doing it and I might as well go back to talking to myself in the dark corners of my head.

Truth is, I'm moody as hell. Got a mess of messy feelings sticking out all over the place and I'm just no good at keeping them to myself. I can keep quiet but it's a kind of quiet that screams. When I'm happy, I bubble and it surely isn't quiet. If it gets quiet around here, you better start looking for the storm shelter because there is surely trouble brewing. A quiet me is going to get all the chores done and take care of business and be soft and compliant, but the sun won't shine and inside, somewhere, I'll be dreaming dreams of a life on a sheep station in New Zealand... It's all silly, of course, but that's the reality of it just the same. I learned the game of escapist fantasy long before I was 10 years old -- I've had 40 years to perfect it.

So, if you are reading here, or you, have been reading here, and you don't want to be smacked by raw feelings and gloomy days. Might want to not hang around. I get into bleak places and this is where it is going to get dumped. On those days, I'm going to be pissy and hard to take. Anyone and anything is fair game and I'm not going to edit it here. If my moaning and bitching taps into yours or strikes a nerve, I apologize -- not my intention to diminish anyone elses happiness or belittle anyone else's pain (and I'm not going to play "my suffering is bigger or deeper than yours"). If I have to write this stupid blog, then I'm going to damn well write it the way I feel it. If you don't want to know, don't look.

swan