Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Why

I stopped writing a while back and it's taken me a good long while to figure out just why.  It's not that I didn't have anything to talk about.  Plenty has happened since April when I dropped off the radar: friends got married, I got a job, moved four states away, my friend died, babies died.  A lot has gone on.

Yet I have not written, which is one thing my shrink said I must do if I want to keep working on the things that dwell in my head.

I finally know why I stopped writing.  It's because I got scared.  I let the ugly voices convince me that if I were to write about the things that run around inside my head that it would scare everyone off.  I have grown convinced that if I lay bare the sad, angry, happy, silly, mixed-upness that is me that I will never find anyone who wants to be close to me.

Not to long ago, a friend announced that she was getting a divorce and that really upset me.  She battles with mental health demons and I know that must have been a stress point in her marriage.  My bizarre little brain tells me that even though I'm not involved with anyone, if in the future I do have a counterpart, he'll probably realize I am a bag of crazy and not want to deal with me in the long run.  Basically I've spent months being upset about a scenario that doesn't exist in this dimension.  I've been paralyzed about a future that is not there.

I know it doesn't help that the baggage that I still haul around occasionally falls off the luggage carousel and I have to re-pack the contents before I close them again.  I hate being reminded that my son's father left me because he was too weak.  I hate that his family packed me up on an auto train and shipped me away.  I hate all things that were said to me, implying that I was not fit to be a mother.

I hate that when my fiancee dumped me at the alter, claiming that I was not trustworthy and would probably have an affair, still angers me.  He came from a broken family, which saddens my heart.  He had problems that he was unable to see, but I still loved that foolish boy.  I know that I would not make the same mistakes and get involved with someone so damaged, but I am still afraid of trusting someone again. 

Like a child that hides under the blankets to avoid the scary monsters in the closet, I am afraid that if I poke my head above the covers I will discover there is no one who wants to be near me.  That I'm the crazy monster in the closet.