Well, here I am... blogging. Not something I ever thought I'd do, but c'est la vie. I realized while home for the holidays that most people are dealing with some internal demons they don't know how to fight off; ghosts of lovers past, heartbreak, regret, family, work, and a million and a half other things that make us unhappy on a daily basis. I watched and listened as two people I love dearly struggled with theirs. They wanted to talk about them, but something kept stopping the words from leaving their mouths. Little bits & blurbs came out, usually followed by a defense mechanism like a shitty attempt at a joke or turning the conversation to me. It killed me to see them hurting; fighting something we couldn't even see... and I was completely powerless.
I, like the rest of normal human civilization, have my own demons. They run around rampant in my head like a frenzied kindergarten class hopped up on Pixie Stix on a field trip to the zoo on the first nice day of spring. My demons- my inner thoughts- are the little monsters banging on the glass of the monkey exhibit, and I am the frazzled teacher trying to make sure they don't jump into the tiger cage... which is very likely something I tried to do when I was younger... because I love tigers. And because I'm half insane. It's a reoccurring theme in my life: insanity. And somehow, I accept it. I take it in stride. I know I'm a crazy person. That's why I'm "blogging". (Really, I refuse to think of this as a blog, because I could give a damn if anyone else ever reads it... and it doesn't really serve a purpose to anyone but me. I'd like to think of this as more of a techy diary; an in-depth look at what goes on in my brain every day.)
Honestly, I just want a way to get it all out. I've always been much better at putting words onto paper (suck it, I know this isn't technically paper, but I'd like to think of myself as an environmentalist who's saving some trees, and also I'm supposedly a "millennial" and we do all our shit on computers, so you know what I mean). Maybe it's because the voice in my head sounds better than what actually comes out of my mouth. Maybe reading my thoughts is more poetic to me. Maybe it's a way for me to really, truly THINK about what I want to say. I think there's a lost art of thinking before speaking; everyone these days is so damn opinionated & unapologetic about it. They don't care if they offend or hurt you- Hell, they don't even care if they're RIGHT- because it's obviously too difficult to take 3.4 seconds to think about whether what you're saying actually has a point or purpose, and whether or not you could sound less like an arrogant asshole while saying it. But I digress...
This is me. This is me stepping out of my comfort zone and letting the world (or no one) into this nuthouse I call my brain. It's my heart on my sleeve and my soul exposed. Some days are going to be awesome, because some days I'm a fucking rock star. Some days are going to suck, because I'm fucking human. And some days will probably waver somewhere in the middle, with highs and lows and singing and screaming. I'll likely be too honest at times, and more dramatic than necessary at others. But for once in my life, I'm not going to hide anything or censor myself to try to make the world a happier place for everyone else.
See that's a nasty little habit I have: I let myself hurt so that others don't have to. If I love you, I'm ok being your little (metaphorical) punching bag or scapegoat so you can get it all out and hopefully feel better. I will plaster a smile onto my face and let the world think I'm Little Miss Fucking Sunshine, just so I don't have to burden someone else with my problems. Seriously, I turned it off for ONE day in clinic in chiro school and was spoken to about it because people were "worried about me"... nothing was wrong; I just didn't want to be super chatty and smiley and happy because it's fucking exhausting. You think Hollywood can act? I've been doing it, nonstop, for years! All so that nobody worries about me; so that I'm not (inadvertently) the reason someone isn't happy. (Side note: if I want you to be unhappy, you'll know. Trust me, you'll know.) Humble brag, but I'm caring to a fault... for everyone else except me. And I've hurt for too long. I've damaged this little heart for as long as I can stand. And I'm tired of it. Enough is enough.
So, what does an over-empathetic, broken down 31-year old little girl with nonstop thoughts & ideas and a whole lot of four-letter words in her vocabulary do to find some inner peace?
She blogs. Or writes. Or whatever the Hell you want to call it.
Let's see where it goes....