All of me

I don’t know myself that well. I can’t presume to know my motivations half the time, and I often find myself amazed at the things I say and do. I like myself a whole bunch though; I think I’m interesting as hell. I can’t understand why people I consider infinitely more amazing and cool than me even give me the time of day, let alone build me up from time to time.

I am invested in getting to know myself better every day, I think I could be good for me. My biggest hope is that one day I’ll finally be able to muscle my big secret out of myself, that I’ll finally trust myself enough to give myself my whole… self.

I can never be enough for myself by myself though. Others are a big part of getting to me. I often daydream about getting alone time in a secluded location with my favorite people; one on one time. Ever since I visited Isla del Tiburon last year, it has been a recurring wish to take people there and just wander off alone to roam the shore and talk. Being at a remote corner of the earth, alone… and I mean ALONE alone, with someone I love, care for, admire, respect or otherwise just wish to pick bare is a major component of my waking dreams.

I am prone to depression. Depression comes from a place of feeling unfulfilled. Whenever I let myself believe I’m stuck, I’m up to my neck in the mud, I will never move again, this is it… my neurotransmitters just check out and go on vacation. Dreaming is a big part of what keeps me mobile, dodging the blasts of sadness and the feeling that I will fade into the background and pass like a fart in the wind. So I look for outside stimulus while simultaneously cheering myself on, trying with all my might to shoulder the inevitable burdens of everyday life. I use my right shoulder for this. I can no longer even carry a purse with that shoulder, it’s shot to shit.

So in the midst of this mental twister, I attempt to write a book. I started it back in May, actually. I went full-on, head-first, drop-it-like-it’s-hot, balls-to-the-wall into it at first and amassed a pretty little word count in a surprisingly short amount of time. Then people started to read it, others learned I was writing it, and my enthusiasm sort of fizzled. Now that I’ve decided to enter NaNoWriMo to finish my manuscript, I’m scared. I’m pinning dreams on this project and betting pretty heavily on myself. Writing is a silly little bag of conundrums. Baring your soul is cathartic and nerve-racking; liberating and daunting; exciting and terrifying. It makes you giddy, light and childlike, but it also chafes your emotions. Dealing with work, children, responsibilities, after vomiting raw feelings onto a document for hours on end? It ain’t easy, lemme letcha know.

So now I’m sort of doing this (blog) as an exercise to start putting myself out there, and perhaps in the process letting myself know it’s okay if others come for me or ignore me royally. It’s about me, it’s for me… but it’s not. We put things down, write, speak, and create, as a means of communicating. Communication is not achieved unless someone outside of ourselves acknowledges our efforts and puts forth a response to it. The response will either be something we consider positive or negative, and then we will have to decide how to respond: in kind, in improvement to the energy sent our way, or not at all… but it needs to get out there. When you have something to say and a way to say it, it’s your responsibility to get it out there.

So… what will I get back, I wonder?

I’m still afraid, I’m afraid.