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.
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.
