It occurs to me that I spend a lot of time backspacing. In retrospect, I can see that my entries here are well guarded, heavily edited articles that don’t reflect a true image of who I really am. I know that I have written extensively about mental illness, but I almost always refer to it in the third person to put distance between it and myself. I write rants. I write safe. There is so little of myself to be found on this blog, which is really disappointing when you consider that the purpose of a blog, like a diary or journal, is to have a place to be honest to yourself. That’s the problem, though: I spend a lot of time avoiding being honest with myself.
The truth is that I have allowed people and situations to burrow under my skin like so many termites, gnawing away at me until I have decided it is easier and safer to keep my true self hidden in the shadows beneath my bed. I have spent copious amounts of time defending myself, only to spend double that in tearing myself apart for the very things that I defend against from outside sources. It has to be acknowledged that I have not, not even slightly, dealt with myself. I have not been honest with myself about my feelings, therefore I have only continued to mentally cripple myself.
I am constantly smothering who I am under this protective armor, terrified of letting myself be whoever it is that I am to the point where I honestly don’t even know myself at all. I feel so isolated from the world around me. I want to be angry about it but I realize that I am isolated because I don’t let anyone in. I don’t trust anyone. When I say that I trust no one, though, I don’t just mean that I don’t trust them not to hurt or judge me. I don’t trust anything that anyone says or does. If you told me you went to the bank yesterday, I would probably not believe you. I wouldn’t accuse you of lying, mostly because it has nothing to do with me, but if asked if you went to the bank… I would reply “well, they said they did”.
These are the blog entries that get backspaced. The long rambles of self which are raw and unorganized, completely indecipherable. But I won’t do that this time. Or ever again.
I know that I might write something here in the future that some (or most) people that know me in reality won’t like. They’ll take offense that I am acknowledging feelings I have hoarded to myself. They’ll find it obnoxious that I think in ways that are, quite frankly, incredibly illogical. They’ll be upset that I paint them or people they know in a light that they feel is unfair or inaccurate. And that’s okay. To write is to be brave. I’ve been thinking that maybe the reason I keep running into walls with writing my novel is because I am a coward. I am afraid to write the real things. Even in fiction, you must be bold enough to write the things that are true in that world, and I have held back.
Meet the new author. Take it or leave it.
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