....or Get Off the Pot

I make up excuses without even knowing I'm doing any such thing.  My laptop is a piece of shit.  I have to work in the morning.  I'm too stressed.  God, the technology has changed so much, wait, what the fuck, is that html?. Is that even a thing now?? My memory of everything is fuzzy in places and I can't do the ordeal any justice.  I think I have to poop.  God, that can't be normal, I should google whether or not that's normal.  I've been doing this for months and the thought of what I should be doing, that I need to be writing and not just thinking about writing, is like a chipped tooth in the back of my mouth.  I keep running my tongue over it, obsessively, wearing it down and I can't leave the fucking thing alone because it needs to be dealt with.  I will never find any kind of peace until I do this.  Everything is just a distraction and after my attention wanders back to where I know I'm supposed to focus it, I realize that a month has gone by.  I resolve to commit to this and then I find something else that doesn't cause me anxiety and shame and rinse and repeat, three months have gone by. 

My thoughts have been so dark and scary the past few weeks and I wake up every day asking myself the same, dipshit question:  Why am I so incredibly depressed and unhappy?  I know why.  Everyone who cares about me knows why and we volley back and forth with me spewing all sorts of bullshit about how I think my estrogen is failing or maybe I need to try this herb, and, oh, shit!  I need magnesium, fucking EVERYONE is low on magnesium according to WebMD and how we haven't all leapt to our deaths from an overpass or office window is mind boggling so that has to be it.  That, and vitamin D.  And the ones who care wearily listen to my latest theory on why everything tastes so gray and then they remind me:  You're unhappy because you're not writing.  I solemnly agree and go back to reading about the benefits of rubbing yak phlegm on your ear lobes. 

The truth is, I'm terrified of this.  I'm so afraid to show anyone the ugliness that resides in me.  It's dormant, now, because I don't feed it veritable fuck tons of opiates any longer, but when it was in control, it was horrifying.  Years ago, when I started this blog, I never once considered the consequences of what I was sharing.  I didn't think about name searches for employment or potential lawsuits (still think you're a douche schooner, Brad Paisley!) or rabid haters affecting my life, my REAL life and my income.  I didn't consider that this is basically a diary that anyone can read and for all eternity and no one is every really anonymous any longer.  I've hurt so many people who didn't deserve to be hurt and I just don't want to carry that shit any longer.  And then when Devon and V gave their blessing, I still hesitated.  I was blown away when Chris encouraged this, as well, because if anyone has a right to despise me for eternity it's him.  All lights are green and I guess the person I'm afraid of hurting now is me.  I've done everything a person can do to demolish themselves, both spiritually and physically, and my God, I'm trying something new, trying to be kind to myself and do I really want to rip all of these band aids off and open myself up to the viciousness of anonymity, again?  Can I withstand feeling like I've failed, again?

I don't want to.  I want to find out that I have a huge trust fund and I can buy a monkey and an obscure island and frolic naked for the rest of my days.  Ya know, with the monkey.  I want to feel proud of who I am and look back and not wince at the absolute waste of potential.  Unfortunately, I can't do the latter without walking straight through this. I've tried going around it, tried killing it, covering it up, Bedazzling the motherfucker to make it prettier, handing it off to someone else and and I'm absolutely certain of one thing and one thing only:  the easy way and I are strangers and always will be and this is no different.  If I died tomorrow, my greatest regret will be that I never finished this because I want my family to know why and how.  I want them to know without a doubt that it was never a choice between them and my demons, that there was nothing they could have done differently and the failures were mine and mine alone. 

I'll write and I'm holding myself accountable to do so at least once a week.  I have no idea what might come out, if any of it will follow a pattern or if I'll be disjointed and rambling but I think that if I just stop procrastinating and write something, anything, it will take shape.  I can hope for that and considering how little hope I've had lately, it's a start.