I’ve been having a hard time writing lately. I have ideas swirling around in my brain, I have conversations logged in my memory, I have a hundred moments – quiet, funny, reflective, sad – that flit like butterflies, uncatchable. I can see them, in all their delicate beauty, poised for flight, but to reach out and grab them damages their wings, and I hold myself back for fear of ruining something beautiful.
Sometimes all I have to do is pause for a breath and the words assemble themselves in my mind, forming post-worthy punctuated pictures, ready for publication if I could only type them out. But I am either at work, or in the car, or at the grocery store, or have awakened in the middle of the night to go pee (my bladder is the size of a lentil), or am cooking, or walking the beach (which is more like a panting waddle, ‘cos my ass is seriously out of shape), or just plain not interested in sitting down at the computer (there’s a whole history there that it would take me 3,000 words to suss out in any way that makes sense – I’ll spare you, as this post is quite long enough as it is), and they never make it from passing fancy to flying fingertip to get typed out.
And so they stew until they stagnate, and trying to resurrect them from the mire is… Exhausting.
So I put it off.
And I put it off some more.
And then something happens that I really.must.write. Except… Oh yeah, there’s no background for the story because I have failed to write 147 things already, so I’ll just add one more item to list of un-dones and let it go.
It’s sort of… Defeating.
I write to process, especially to process emotion, and when I just.can’t.do.it, I start to feel overwhelmed.
And don’t even start with me on the whole, “Oh Feve, just write when you feel like writing” bullshit because I already tried that on myself and it doesn’t help. Thanks anyway, but save your breath.
And if you’re thinking, What’s the big deal, anyway? It’s just a blog. Well, let me tell you… You’re absolutely right. It’s just a blog. But it’s my blog and I don’t like it right now.
And I think that’s part of the problem.
Generally speaking, I like this little space of mine, my tiny corner of the internet cloud-o-sphere. I like the people I meet and the conversations I have and the things I learn. Playing with words, having discussions, learning about my community (interpret that as you will) – these are all things I enjoy.
But right now…
Not so much. And it’s hard to articulate all the why’s (see prior reference to the Unwritten 147), especially as it’s not down to any *one* fixable thing.
But it’s hard for me sometimes. Because I invest myself here. On my own blog and on others’. And I’ve lost a lot in the process. (Yes, yes, I know you’d love to hear the details. But I’d love to be independently wealthy, and sometimes we just don’t get what we want. Plus, as I already mentioned: This post is quite long enough as it is.)
I understand that people leave. The turnover here (in terms of who engages regularly) has been pretty high from the very beginning. (And the whole censoring-sex-blogs thing that happened on WordPress in 2013 is in the works on Blogger right now, so I expect another mass exodus from both platforms in about 3.28 seconds.) Generally speaking, I just roll with it. People come and go, some come back later, some disappear into the ether forever. With most, it’s like strangers passing on a train. We take a meal or two together, have a few interesting conversations, laugh a little, and leave each other a little better than we were before we met.
Some of the people you meet via blogging become part of your life – your real life – and you let them in… Only to have them steal pieces of you when they leave.
It’s just life, I guess. And online life is a microcosm of the greater world. But it’s hit me hard over the past year, and I am not one for hard hits. Especially this time of year.
February is a hard month for me.
Last Wednesday would have been my grandfather’s 90th birthday. This Thursday will be the 25th anniversary of his death. It’s a grief that renews itself every year, but moreso this year for some reason. It could be that the Last Man Standing from my grandfather’s generation was laid to rest on Valentine’s Day. It could be that my mother is inching closer to the age her father was when he died, and I see so much of him in her (even though I hardly see her at all), that it’s a constant reminder that The End is just around the corner. It could be that I recognize the next generation to go is my parents’ generation, and that puts death one step closer to my own door.
It could be that I am affected by things unrecognized, by circumstances unclear, by happenings unknown to me.
It could be that I’m neurotic.
But neurosis or no, February is a hard month. It is a month I associate with leaving.
Last year in February, the two people who supposedly love me the most, turned my world upside down. One left me. He turned inside his shell and hid from the world and shut me out, without apology or explanation. I understand, intellectually, that he was turning inward as opposed to turning away. But it manifests the same, doesn’t it? And his timing was pretty fucking shitty. (Yes, that’s what I said. Pretty fucking shitty. Say that ten times fast without laughing.) Not only did/does he know how hard February is for me, but his turning away came on the heels of a Very Bad Time: literally, the same day that lightning struck my relationship with my husband, and the emotional severance that followed *that* particular storm took months to repair. (There’s a lot I don’t write here, for good reason. Suffice to say The Year of The Horse was the year of the bucking fucking bronco, and no matter how hard it tried, it could not throw me off. I may be walking funny and feel a little saddle sore, but I won. “Fuck you, horse!” For that, there is a tattoo in order. Also, we’re fine now.)
So. Three men I loved have left me – one way or another – in February.
Two men I loved were buried in February.
Mortality rears its ugly head.
Emphasized by the beginning of lent. Ash Wednesday. Which was the anniversary of my grandfather’s birthday.
And the wheels on the bus go ’round and ’round…
There’s more, but I really don’t feel like getting into all of it here.
But that’s a problem. Because I need to get it out. And writing – whether I hit ‘publish’ or not – is how I do that.
A la Anna Nalick:
If I get it all down on paper it’s no longer inside of me
Threatening the life it belongs to
And I feel like I’m naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary screaming out loud
And I know that you’ll use them however you want to
So this is me, writing.
Because I have to.
Because keeping it in is toxic.
Because I’m neurotic.
Couch time is over.
Amateur psychologists, do your thing. I’m gonna find something to eat.