I was going to just delete this, the first blog that wordpress created for me, but then the HELLO WORLD! enthusiasm kinda made me giggle, so I’m just going to keep it and use it.
I have made my 2011 resolution, to start and keep this blog. The only rule is that I must write everyday, even if is just one sentence (today was a giant steaming pile of dog doodoo) or even just one word (pooooooooh). This is about finding my happy, because I’m 33 ¾ and I still haven’t and yes, I know that right now you want to say one of the following: but you just got married! At least you have a job! You’re lucky that you were born in America, there are starving people in (insert current starving country) and/or a war going on in (pick your favorite war torn country) etc etc YES! I KNOW! trust me I know! someone in my position should probably be happy, but none of those can make or break your happiness, it comes only from you (and by you I mean me). Those of you who have never felt the icy, bony finger of Depression poke you in the shoulder, seen his insidious Jack Nicholson grin as he pulls up a chair in your kitchen have no idea what I’m talking about. You see the world as it is, not as a dark smothering pit, not as a furious ocean swirling madly, waiting to suck you in and under. With depression it doesn’t matter what happens around you because you can’t see it anyway, people smile (laugh, skip, shop, drive, live) and all you can see is the 5 foot bubble around yourself filled with cold despair. And by you, of course, I mean me. Sometimes I can slip him for a moment, an hour, a day and feel some warmth but it’s hard to hold onto and it goes as quickly as it comes. Depression is a tough customer, he doesn’t just come to hang out, smoke some dope and shoot the breeze, no, he’s a taker – he wants your soul. I wish the ease with which some people live – smile, breathe, FEEL was mine, I wish it wasn’t an effort just to et out of bed sometimes, but, alas– it is, and I must learn to deal – this is my genetic betrayal.
But, I digress. This is about finding me, and liking me. It involves becoming pain-free and thinner, and seeing just how long I can get my hair before I cut it off myself with a meat cleaver. And other stuff that will obviously come up along the way. The problem with my writing is that I’m not honest. This shocking revelation just came to me as I sat here. With my writing, like with the rest of my life, I’m trying too hard to be good at it. It’s like I don’t dare be mediocre, so instead I pretend to be something I’m not. For roughly 22 of my 33 years I’ve wished I was somebody else. Anybody else. Somebody skinny, somebody pretty, somebody smart, Jennifer Aniston, Kelly Clarkson, whatever. Just anybody but this usually chubby, most times obnoxious, definitely smart and clever but in my opinion irritating girl. Why am I not just me? Why am I constantly trying to make a better me? I defy you to make a better me than me! Okay, calm down. The point is that even if my writing is mediocre (or total crap) it makes me feel just a little better and I’ve always wanted to do it. So I’m going to try to do this with as little editing as possible and to smother with a plastic sack that bitch in my head that always shouts at me that I’m not good enough, clever enough, etc etc.