I realize it’s a strange thing now, to write as openly as I used to. I’d gotten so good at it, too.
I was leaving everything that I was writing about behind. It’s easy to write about those things when you’re opening up a completely new chapter, free of such toxicity.
I caught up to the “now” some time ago in my writing and it looks like I’m not so good at acknowledging things AS they happen. I personally think that is a bit of a problem. I’m aware of so many things yet somehow I still miss so much. About my own life, no less. What is that? Am I so focused on being self-aware that I’ve become completely self-absorbed instead? Am I just completely missing it? Have I crossed that line? I really hope not, but god I think I’m getting close to it.
What am I even talking about? Ugh. Can we just not?
So there are these new people who I know and who I LIKE reading this thing. Actual strangers are also reading it. People subscribe. Like what is that? Who are you people? “I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member” is basically my motto. I’m not thrilled to be living my life by the words of a guy who was called Groucho but we all have our crosses to bear. Seriously, guys. Go away. It’s not you, it’s me. You’re better off without me.
I’m just kidding though, please keep reading and tell all your friends.
I’ve had a request for more bitchy posts, and god while I do love me a good rant about shitty people, I’ve made a real solid effort to avoid the type. And I’d say I’m doing a pretty bang up job of that lately. I really don’t have much to bitch about. That’s good, right?
So what DO I have to talk about? How great my exceedingly mundane life is? I’m not that kind of pretender, ok? I’m not sure if I’m detestably modest or just really that mediocre, but either way, it’s just not happening. No toxic people. No particular grievances. No feminist rants. I guess that just leaves room to focus on the good things that I’m supposed to be doing with my life.
No, no, that’s clearly not going to work. I can’t write happy. No one wants to read about that. Happy people are the worst. Like who are you, without your self-doubt and mediocre job and shitty, overpriced loft? NOT SOMEONE I CARE ABOUT. We already use Facebook to pretend that our lives are perfect. That’s not the point of this.
Happy is not a constant thing. It comes and goes. As far as I can tell, much of life is spent simply content. It’s ok if things aren’t fantastic, as long as they aren’t bad. But hard times are had. It happens to everyone. Happiness isn’t some state of being that once reached you can never leave.
I mean that’s what prison actually is, so you just think about that ok?
I still remember the best thing that happened since starting this blog. A month or so into it, a guy I (barely) knew through a (barely) mutual friend sent me a message telling me that my writing helped him deal with a some difficult stuff in his own life. And that just made my fucking day. I didn’t really know what the point of all this was when I started writing it. I just knew I had a story I wanted to tell. I didn’t have to make it up. There were characters, twists, drama, romance, love, lust, and more. It was a soap opera. It was just too easy.
But then people actually started telling me how much they enjoyed it. That they could relate. That it made them feel less alone. It’s nice to have that reassurance, for them as well as for me. Writing personal stuff is not easy. That reassurance is a two way street.
Life is hard and it doesn’t really get easier. In time we learn, which helps us make better decisions, but those choices just keep coming. It’s the journey to happy that’s interesting and it’s really never ending. It’s the road less traveled that people want to hear about. I’m still figuring stuff out, just like you are. I’m just a voice telling you that you aren’t alone.