Every day I talk about writing. How I want to, need to, have to finish that piece. But I haven’t made it a priority. Many friends, family, acquaintances, friends of friends have mentioned this blog that my head has been spinning (and slowly inflating) from the generous and heartwarming words of encouragement and praise. That, this little hobby of mine has sparked anyone’s interest is remarkable. I just needed an outlet to process the events of the last year in the best way I know how - through writing.
A friend asked me why I chose to write a blog as opposed to a journal. It's a fair question. She has known me a long time and has witnessed firsthand the devastation the last five years has inflicted on my life, as well as the attempts made (time and time again) to emerge from the rubble as unscathed as possible. Through these attempts I haven't always been the most forthcoming about how I felt. I’m kind of known for the statement, “Well, it's hard, but what are you going to do?” It’s always been very difficult for me to allow myself to be viewed as vulnerable, incompetent, and unsuccessful in any way. Unless copious amounts of alcohol have been consumed, then I'll spill my innermost fears to just about anyone who demonstrates the slightest bit of interest - like making eye contact. Vodka always equals too much information when I’m part of the equation.
This false armor I created was dismantled completely last summer. Perhaps it was the humiliation of being incapacitated in a hospital bed, with extreme bacteria attacking my digestive system. Perhaps it was that no matter how I portrayed myself I couldn't hide the fact that I couldn't take care of my daughter. Maybe, I was simply tired of partially hiding the parts of my life that define who I am today. Whatever the reason, I made a conscious decision to not be ashamed.
Not one of the so-called kinks the universe has thrown in the spokes of my life plan is or should have EVER been a cause for shame. Infertility, depression, anxiety, communication issues, pancreatitis, vision-loss, prolonged illness, mommy-guilt, more depression, more anxiety; all of these are completely valid (and uncontrollable) causes for the current identity crisis I find myself partaking in. The one controllable factor is how I handle it all. I'll be the first to admit that some days I don't handle it well. Some days, it takes so much effort to get out of bed that I am left wondering why I bothered. Other days, like today, I totally have this blind, crazy, momma thing down. Yes, I am being facetious but seriously, I feel as if I have it all under control. I am happy, competent, and confident.
This brings me to the point of today's post. As a result of making the decision to be honest and forthcoming about the events and experiences that have made me, me, I am giving myself permission to be honest and forthcoming in my writing. Writing has become a necessity to me. Just like the meds I take every day to keep my body from going haywire again, I need to make time to write so I don't go haywire as often as I could. This involves giving myself the permission to post incomplete pieces or rough paragraphs. Those of you who are familiar with the perfectionist side of me knows this is not an easy task. To realize that this is a blog, not an essay that will be graded is HUGE. Lil Miss Perfectionist is shuddering at the thought that a misplaced comma or a misinterpreted thought might squeak its way into your brain. "OMG! What might you think?” she is shouting. Not to mention, “I just used the acronym OMG, what am I 14?" I will do my best to quiet her with promises of revisions at a later date. You all can help by being just as supportive as you have been thus far. By reading, following, or commenting on this blog, and my ramblings, you repeatedly tell her, “Shhh. . . it’s okay.” Which is so important because polished or not, I’ve been dancing around my reality long enough and I have a LOT to say.