Concreteness

I have kept journals in some form or another since I was around 10 years old (which is also when I began menstruating). There is a connection between writing and being an emotional and psychological basket-case, just ask Virginia Woolf, Anne Sexton or Sylvia Plath. Oh yeah, they all committed suicide. I make my point.

Anyway, in college I became very consistent about writing, perhaps because in addition to the hormones I was veering ever closer to adulthood, as in scared shitless by all the responsibility of deciding what I want to be when I grow up and getting my own insurance, etc., etc.

My writing slacked off when I married and became a teacher, but then my nervous breakdown after N's birth resulted in a resurgence. When I started talk therapy, I started writing again, in part to remember things to discuss with my therapist.

Writing with the intention of discussing with my therapist really changed my thought process while journaling. It became less a vent (although sometimes it still was and is that) and more a problem solving exercise. I was able to get a little more perspective because I knew I had to really think my thoughts through in order to explain them to her.

So when my friend G suggested that her friends start blogs (so she could stay in touch with them from up North), I decided to do so with the intent that it would be like hers...about her family. Ever the self-absorbed person, my blog is about me with little snatches of N and D, but primarily me.

I emailed some people with my blog info, but not many. I emailed those people whom I thought might be interested (some who I think are fellow "nutjobs" and others who just might be bored enough to read it once in awhile). Other friends have "confessed" to me that they read my blog (I guess after hearing about it from others). I suspect they are embarrassed because they are reading about the seemingly very personal things I might write here.

So this brings me to a few thoughts I've had related to blogging.

First, there is virtually nothing I won't write or discuss with someone, even disgusting, embarrassing stuff. I figure that what most people feel uncomfortable discussing with others is the type of stuff everyone experiences on some level. It is the stuff that makes people worry that they aren't normal simply because no one ever talks about that stuff (except maybe Cosmo magazine, and the people they tend to interview are idiots or nymphos).

Second, even when I talk about this stuff it still doesn't remove that feeling of isolation, that feeling of "no one really, truly, deeply understands me." No one will ever be me so, despite what I might write, there are still millions of thoughts and feelings swirling around in my head and changing with my experiences. This is simply the human condition and no amount of confession or explanation will ever get to the bottom of it.

Finally, as in therapy, blogging my thoughts makes them concrete...makes the process more cognitive and less emotional, which is good for me because I'm more likely to be rational. From the time I was 10 (as in menstruating), I knew my thoughts were a little crazy, a little irrational, but I thought that was just me. It was only when I got older that I realized that checking the car locks 4 times before walking to class wasn't normal and thinking every little pimple was a cancerous growth wasn't normal and calling someone who wasn't home 15 times and letting the phone ring and ring and ring wasn't normal. And finally by the time I sought treatment, I KNEW that envisioning myself stabbing my baby wasn't normal.

So blogging is for me...and about me...and knowing that someone else might read it makes me think it through and stand back and see what is rational and what is irrational and that helps me feel in control. Because when I read my journals that are just for me, I see only the distorted and sad feelings and there is nothing to balance them out.

And I wonder who might read this and think "That C is REALLY NUTS!" based on what I've just written. But most people, if they are really honest, will recognize that they probably have done or thought some equally bizarre things. I'm just willing to talk about them because, god knows, I didn't feel nearly as strange when I knew I wasn't alone. And that is a big part of surviving life....not feeling alone.