A wandering thought-bubble and writer’s block walked into a bar..

I’ve been suffering from a rather mild case of writer’s block lately. The last handful of posts I’ve shared, while heartfelt, were more forced than flowy. Yes, even the one about my favorite little five-year-old. I found myself wanting to write the last couple of months or so with a purpose at hand but when it comes time to take a seat, nothing comes out the way I envision it. I don’t know what that means. Writing has always been my outlet, even pre-blog. I’ve never been impressive off-the-cuff but I’ve always taken pride in what I can scrounge up if you give me a few minutes to breathe and organize my thoughts.

I’ve found that, over the years, my best writing comes from a place of pain and heavy-heartedness which, makes sense. I mean, even as a child, I’d put myself into a corner to write out my feels because I felt so broken from the child-size versions of Karen’s and Terry’s out there taunting a kid who desperately just wanted to disappear. I never even wanted to be seen in that way or to be one of the cool kids. I simply wanted people to be nice; something I thought everyone was born with, kindness. I found out that wasn’t really a thing and if it wasn’t possible, I wished people could just pretend I didn’t exist. I think I figured if I was invisible, it’d be easier than being ridiculed for looking so differently than the stereotype.

The thing is, I know I’ve come a long way since the days of summertime sadness. Of winter and fall and springtime sadness, too. While I may not be totally healed from the bummers of my childhood, I eventually figured out a way to overcome it and adopt a treat-everyone-with-kindness mentality, most of the time. But that, too, has gotten my heart into trouble.

The details aren’t nearly as important as the grief of realizing how mishandled your emotions were relationship after relationship, friendship after friendship. I learned how to show empathy and help people when they’re down but that only later put me in situations where I tried to fix people that were broken from their own unaddressed trauma. And the thing is, no one tells you that you can’t cure people that aren’t ready to travel down the yellow brick road of healing.

Those experiences taught me to keep my opinions to myself, they taught me to be quiet, they contributed to the diminishment of any self-esteem I bothered mustering up as a teen and young adult. I often found it hard to connect with girls; I still don’t know how to actually have a female friendship. Don’t come at me for this but woman are complicated. And mean.

I know it probably doesn’t make sense but all of this feels like some sort of twisted mind-fuck ripple effect.

Our parents start us out in this world with so much hope and joy for what their babies will grow up to be, maybe even how they’ll be. But so slowly, one small action causes another and another. The first weird look or hurtful thing turns into more than you can count on your fingers and toes. I’d rather have sticks and stones be thrown because contrary to the popular lies we’ve been told, words really do hurt. Pretty soon, those little babies are so self-aware and self-conscious of so many things that they don’t quite know what’s right and what’s not; what’s normal and what’s weird. When did all that happen? How?

Sometimes I wonder if parents-to-be ever think about the balance between protecting their children from the hate of society and allowing it to happen, because it will. Even the most sheltered of kids eventually are subjected to it.

Anyway, isn’t it weird? I often wonder if the reason I’m an perfectionistic constantly-observational overthinker with niche nerd pathways and anxiety-ridden tendencies is because of something that happened in 2nd grade. Or when I was 15. I wonder if I’ve always had the spirit of a vagabond and the mind of an organized spaz by nature, or by nurture. I wonder if I feel like I’ll be alone forever not because I’m not capable of loving but because I’m unbearable to be around. And why would that be? Is it because I gave too much of myself to other people throughout my time here on earth; like the wishes of a dandelion being blown in the wind?

The thing that really gets me though is while my best writing has always come from a place of hurt and I’m far more healed now in life than I ever have been in 31 years of millennial existence, I still experience all sorts of wounds in my wanna-be-tough-girl mind on a way-too-often basis. So why have I found it more difficult to write lately?

These wounds, they are more streamlined now though. Through a whole lotta faith and a little bit of therapy, I’ve had an opportunity to deal with some really crappy shit head-on. Which has been fulfilling to work through and overcome but where does that put me with the thing I enjoy most, writing?

I think I really just want to be heard. My whole life I’ve felt both seen and unseen at the same time. Seen for reasons I didn’t want to be and unseen because no one quite understands me. I figure if I spill my guts out to a white page somewhere on the internet, what? Someone, somewhere, will finally be like “girl, I get you.”

What a wild dream that’d be.

No Really, I’m Fine.

It’s been a hot minute, hasn’t it? I haven’t written since August and before that it was April. 20-16 must have been the year of writers block or something. I’ve had my fair share of Twitter rants and wonderings so I’m still in the game. I think I struggle most with what the purpose of this blog is supposed to be, if any. Does it need a purpose? Probably not. But since when do I do something for no reason? Never.

At it’s core, I just want to leave my stamp in the world. Years from now when memories fade or when my children, niece and grandchildren want to know more about me or how I was or how I felt or thought or dreamt or lived.. I want them to have something to refer to coming from me. Not some folklore story (like I even have any haha!) where moments were altered because the game of telephone was never that good of a game to begin with. I want someone, somewhere to be able to break all my ramblings down and be like “..she was something else. She thought differently, she understood life on a different level than others.” Something I’ve been trying to figure out for all of 27 years and I still really can never find anyone like me. Not that I really want to, I suppose. I like being me. (On the inside. The outside is another issue, self-esteem related obviously.) But it would be nice to have a “me” in my life if that makes any sense.

Of course, not everything and everyone has or will be in this blog. That’s the funny thing and maybe that’s why I have an issue with continuing this writing rambling. What’s the point if it’s only full of half of the story? I learned my lesson years ago from airing out my dirty laundry on this blog. A time in my life when I was reaching out for something, just needing to get things off my chest and be heard but the people that actually read my posts were the very ones I didn’t want to read them. No one really ever gave a shit or tried to understand what was going on in my life in those very moments of need. Lectures have never solved problems. Such is life and I lived.

Since then, I’ve had times that have come and passed without even a blink on this blog. Feelings of self-doubt and hatred. Body issues, moral dilemmas, pure livid wtf moments.. Pain, joy, death. And feelings of nothing. I’ve spent hours binge watching my favorite shows over and over. Reading stories and blogs on purpose with the intent to either cry or laugh, however I feel like feeling that day. I feel it all, just like everyone else, but I just don’t feel like there is a legit way to share anymore. You always run the risk of a co-worker or boss or friend seeing what you’ve written and they immediately jump. Instantaneously┬ápass some kind of weird judgement as if they really really know you when all it was was a blip in your day that you just needed to write about. No biggie.

I’ve wanted to tell you so much but in a world of over-sharing, I just can’t. Any story that I have ever told or will ever tell will always be carefully arranged. It’s time to read between the lines.

Too-ta-loo.