I find that when I write or hold a conversation that it is usually this mess of words and emotional flotsam, sort of just spilling everywhere without form or function other than to get them OUT of my face.
Because I do not talk much you see.
There are very few people who get all of me, and even then I am often very selective in what I am spilling. This is a bad thing because I have too much introverted pressure. All of that builds up and just sort of washes out in scary force here or to that select few, and when it does it is a jumbled mess, and its content is unpredictable.
What I do know however – is that an awful lot of the strange surface matter winds up here. The annoying fluff of negativity that sort of rides the waves in a murky kind of foam.
And I don’t mean pretty blue ocean with a little bit of suds lapping against the shore.
I mean this.
Now, I can tell you that I am usually pretty calm. Calm for someone who suffers from a rather potent amount of anxiety. Usually at least – that anxiety has a trigger of some sort (except when it doesn’t) and it is not all pervasive. (Except when it is.)
So under all of that scary foam, there is generally calm deep water with much more substance, it is just that often all I am able to give you is the foam, because.. well I mean look at it. There is SO MUCH of it.
I have spent a very long time walking this fine line betwixt the desire for being anonymous and being able to say what I like, where I like to say it, and being attached to my name and censoring myself to the extreme where I just say nothing at all because I do not want to be accountable for my words. Which sounds wrong to me – it is more that I do not want the conflict and the discussions they will bring about. It is an extreme form of choosing my battles. Not even to say “But that isn’t even about YOU.” Which has already happened before – because some people are insanely paranoid, and paranoia often spreads like some insidious virus.
Besides…. what if my mother finds it and sees me cursing like a sailor?
‘But Saiyge…. your mother hasn’t found your blog, and you haven’t been cursing like a sailor, and you are 36 years old for a few more days, for Pete’s sake.’ You say?
But what if she DOES and I DID and she SEES?
My parents, for as long as I can remember have been extremely supportive of my writing. Every other conversation we have had since I was a kid, they impressed upon me that there was at least one, if not many – an entire universe of BOOKS hiding inside of me just waiting for me to allow them to sprawl out into reality. That witty, silly and engaging characters were just residing in my fingertips waiting for me to let them out. They would accompany me from the age of 8 or so, to poetry readings where I was the only one under the age of 30. They still remind me how the Poet Laureate pulled them aside and urged them to keep supporting me, that some day I would wind up … doing something with it or being somebody or something. This was only fueled on by several English teachers, all of whom believed in me and encouraged me in every way they possibly could.
All of these people saw something in me and I find myself sitting here with a birthday coming up next week, and I have done nothing. I stopped writing poetry, I stopped scrawling on any piece of paper at hand. I could not tell you where my little journals are. I cannot tell you where all of my pretty words and belief went. Only that I made myself small by hiding bits of myself somewhere along the way for one reason or another, and I haven’t quite learned how to retrieve all of those bits just yet.
There is a draft of a post that I thought I had published twice. Once when I originally scrawled it out and then again last week or so when I saw that it had never actually published and I couldn’t figure out why it was still in a draft. It is still a draft, I have no explanation as to why I haven’t just thrown it out there. Again.
The gist of it was basically that while I don’t really remember what I set out to make this blog out to be – that I was writing it for myself. I was writing because I needed to separate myself from the rest of my life in some kind of way, to have a place where I was not attached to any other person as an identity (Not someone’s wife, not someones mother, not someones employee, not someones boss) because I have been lost in THAT type of identity for a very long time and have lost a good chunk of what it means to be ME in some solitary way.
I think I was going to take pictures of food, particularly when it went all pear shaped. I was not really going to talk about my life. I was not going to talk about being poor and hungry when my job situation fell apart or feeling lost or how baffled I am that many of the people I meet seem to have no common sense or work ethic. I was not going to cry when I was having a bad day with the kidlet, and I was not going to gush about how awesome said kidlet is. (He is really awesome by the by.) I was just going to be me, an entity fully apart from alloftheotherthings.
And then I remembered something.
We paint who we are here.
My friends can come here and read my blog and they know me. They know all the things that you might not. They know my voice. My strange and whacked humor. They know my story because they are a part of that story.
They know when I am being freaked out and when the painkillers for Toe are making a mess out of my head.
They know that I sound tired and distracted because I am mom and wife first, employee a crushing second, and that I rarely have anything left over for myself.
They know what lies under all that sea foam.
But you are just learning that there is something ELSE under all that foam, and who knows what might be under there.
(Kraken albatrossi do exist here, just sayin.)
Someone I work with once brought to my attention that all I was really giving them was foam. Surface banter.
We would talk about the little annoyances each day would bring and fluffy things like pie, tentacled beings and socks.
This isn’t really a problem? But unless we share more of our meat as it were, or in my case today – a tide pool or two, maybe some sea glass here and there… we aren’t doing ourselves any real favors because we give people a very incomplete appreciation of who we are.
This type of relationship is not where its at for me – and because of how I guarded myself, I gave this person a really bad representation. Random complaining here and there and fluff with none of my story to temper it.
It likely did not help that back then 12-18 hour work days were my normal, on top of the whole cooking/cleaning/helping with homework/handling autistic meltdowns etc. She did know about the long days at work, but not really the rest of it, and if not even that much? None of the back story.
It made me come off as tired, distracted, and ungrateful.
I am still tired and distracted, but I have not been ungrateful since I was a teenager and I cannot tell you how much that one discussion still haunts me, that feeling of being so misjudged at the core of who I am -when really I had no one else to blame. I am the one who misrepresented myself because I desperately wanted to have some sort of identity separated from those who I devote myself to.
Because I have a real problem with moderation.
When I give myself to something I throw my entire body into it… and then later find myself resenting that I have gone and Borged myself. Again.
The point being – I was doing it. Again – and there really isn’t call for it.
That is why I haven’t deleted my opiate induced posts about Toe, or the fever one about random peeing, as much as they are making me squirm.
That is why I am going to give you foam, and I hope that if I keep giving you foam, eventually I’ll be able to give you some sea glass too.
And Mom – if you ever find this, I’m sorry, because I’ll probably curse sometimes – and it won’t be to say Shoot, or OH Marshmallow, but I still love you.