Things I Shouldn’t Talk About And Salted Wounds

There’s something very frustrating about blogging.  In some ways, it’s extremely intimate.  I share a lot – maybe more than I should – and I try to stay open and honest and not be too limited in what I say by how others might react to it.  The same goes for my songwriting; my mom might not appreciate the topic/language/images I use, but I can’t let that constrain my expression, especially since expression is so much of how I define myself.

At the same time, there are limits to what I can share and what’s appropriate and it can get really hard to walk the line.  For the past two months I haven’t posted anything because I’ve been trying to protect someone who hurt me deeply and never made amends.  Unfortunately, the conflict has been consuming my energy and dominating my waking thoughts – it turned my life upside-down – so it’s the sort of thing I would really want to blog about.  And I have, I just never posted it or removed it or set it up to post later and canceled it.  As vitriolic and acidic as I’ve been with this person in my anger and pain, I’ve at least resisted the urge to write something that might implicate them personally.  Actually, even though some of what I’ve written would go over the head of anyone but the person in question, I’ve resisted posting that as well.

But I think this is adding to my resentment.  There’s a certain amount to which we have to constrain ourselves for other people, just for the sake of being functional members of our society.  But having to act like nothing is amiss is making me feel so isolated.  It has nothing to do with calling out the other person, I just desperately need an outlet for the stress and emotions that are wreaking havoc on my life.  I already have to live every day in the wreckage left by someone else’s choices; I wake up to it in the morning and sleep in it every night.  This person and this conflict has been inescapable and unavoidable for me, so it already feels like an unwanted and overbearing influence in my day-to-day.  But then to stifle my voice for it, even though they never asked me to, makes me resent them even more.

I was wounded so deeply then left to fester in silence for two months, punctuated only by the occasional salt in the wound.  It’s taken an exhausting amount of self-control to only snap at the person in question and not yowl at the top of my lungs like a kicked dog.  And it’s not fair of me to add my frustrations at my morally imposed muzzle onto the bitterness I’m already holding towards them.

I’ve not been a saint through all this.  Like everyone, there’s a bit of Jekyll and Hyde in me.  I really try to be a kind, caring person who puts others before herself – and I am 99% of the time, which I think is why I get so upset when someone else isn’t.  But if someone hurts me or exploits my kindness or betrays my trust, I go nuclear.  And I can use my words to express my anger and pain just as pointedly as I do to talk about love and excitement and fear and philosophy, which is a hellish combination for the person that burns me.  It’s not something I’m proud of.  In fact, my temper is something I really don’t like about myself (along with my acne prone skin and cellulite).

When I express something, I want it to be heard.  Theres a – perhaps slightly narcissistic – need in me to share what I create.  I don’t think I’m alone in this.  Why does anyone blog rather than just keeping a journal?  But when the only person who gets the full force of my language is the person I’m angry at, it ends badly for both of us.  I don’t feel good about it and I know that I have a particular talent for turning words into razor-sharp weapons coupled with a compulsion for someone – anyone – to hear my desperate expression of pain.

There are things I shouldn’t write about, which is why you’re not getting a name or a context or anything other than my feelings and my actions.  But there are also things I have to write about.  I can’t pretend that everything is gumdrops and rainbows because it’s really not.  I’ve been miserable and bitter and angry and I think until I either reach a resolution with this person or finally escape the situation, I’m going to stay miserable and angry.  I’ve been hurt too badly to just get over it or move past it.  And since the other person has left me in silence, my words – both those of simple, honest expression and those of anger – have been building up inside me like water rising to boil over onto the stove.  The silence fuels my anger – it reads as condescension or dismissiveness to me and I ramp up the vitriol to get a response and it’s ugly.

So this is my pressure release valve.  This is my cathartic expression of frustration and hurt.

Silence doesn’t work for me, so I’m breaking it.

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Extended Periods of Radio Silence

It’s been radio silence from me for a while.  I’ve been quietly working on posts but haven’t managed to finish any.  A lot of this is because the things that are really consuming my energy and emotions right now aren’t things I can blog about.  I tried and quickly realized it was a bad idea and immediately canceled the postings.  All of the goings-on in my life for the past two months have stunted my sense of humor so everything read as just depressing rather than hilarious.

Took a selfie.

Took a selfie.

Meanwhile I’ve been trying to write about my bizarre addiction, but I keep engaging in my habit instead of actually writing about it.  (I’m not telling you what it is because I still believe I might finish the post eventually.)  And maybe that’s what I need to do right now.  It keeps me calm (and isn’t that damaging to my social life).  Life has suddenly become so busy and complicated – and some of the issues I’m dealing with are so deeply personal – that I need to either actually engage with the situation or avoid it all together to stay sane; philosophizing via the internet only makes it more stressful (as much as I’d like to think that flaming out in a post would make me feel better).

The biggest thing that I can write about is that I’m moving!  Again!  (SO FUN.)

Only fun if you're a cat or toddler.  Cardboard hell for everyone else.

Only fun if you’re a cat or toddler. Cardboard hell for everyone else.

This time I’m definitely staying in one spot for a while, which is awesome.  It’s the first time in a long time that I can recycle my boxes after moving rather than just saving them for the next inevitable transition.  And this go-round, I won’t spend any time without furniture.

You were great, Fernitur, but I'm still paying chiropractic bills.

You were great, Fernitur, but I’m still paying chiropractic bills.

I’m not sure how I’ll fall asleep without the delicate screaming of the train that runs two houses away from me or the soothing, hour-long howling fits of the dog next door, but I’m sure I’ll find a way to cope.  Maybe I’ll pay someone to intermittently throw all my pans on the floor and blow an airhorn in my living room to replicate the sensation.

I have come to like my little neighborhood: the bus that can’t quite make the turn at the end of my street, the unsupervised children chasing each other with scrap metal (I worry almost as much for my car as I do for them), the guy who does target practice in his yard from time to time, that ef-ing dog.  But I suspect there are greener pastures ahead.  And as convenient as it was to be able to sit on the edge of my bed and touch every piece of furniture in my room and open both doors, a little more space and a lot more freedom and control over my situation will probably do me good.

On second thought, this is probably more square-footage than my current apartment.

On second thought, this is probably more square-footage than my current apartment.

As excited as I am, moving has pretty much been a 25-hour-a-week job in addition to my actual work.  Between transferring utilities (AT&T, you know what you did), finding home insurance, and the other sundry complications that come with getting a new place, I’ve barely had time or energy for anything else.  And there’s a semi-crippling melancholy/depression that comes from still having to wake up every day in someone else’s collateral damage, even knowing there are better days ahead.  It’s made it pretty much impossible to move on.  I’ve been on edge for two months now, but I’m finally starting to relax the closer I get to the actual move.

It’s still hard to believe it’s really happening, but it gets more real and I feel more positive about it every day,  It’s very much a light at the end of the tunnel kind of effect; every day it gets bigger and brighter and more tangible.  The long, dark tunnel leading up to it has been fairly miserable – essentially one long anxiety attack teaming up with a migraine – but sometimes you need to stretch until it hurts if you want that brass ring.

And at the end of the day, it’s all just lyric fodder.  Hopefully, I’ll have some more music and blog posts to share with you all in the near future.

Soon, friends.  Soon.

[I was going to insert a scary clown picture here and vetoed it for all of our sakes.  You’re welcome.]