That’s the name of the blog I was going to dump Mistress Mom for. Then I decided to stick with this blog, and HOLY CRACKWHORE! The similarities between this narrative and the one about how I’ve “tried out” other people but have stayed with Rob for half a decade? They. are. everywhere.
Point blank: I feel a need to be cleansed and rejuvenated. Not my body, no. My soul? Not really. My writing voice? YES, YES PLEASE!
I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember, and save for a finished novel, a bunch of half-finished novels, lot of accolades, a couple dozen journal and newspaper by-lines, and several published pieces that saw the light of day years and years and years ago, I have nothing to show.
Okay, okay, I know, I know. I’m bragging again. Bad Maria, pretending to be modest while showing off the goodies.
Seriously though, maybe it’s me, but it’s just not enough. I want more.
What is it that I want? Well, hold yer horses, because if you think I’m usually full of myself, then you’re going to vomit.
There was a time, I remember, when my writing was golden. Honestly. I could captivate with my vocabulary, emote with the placing of commas and ellipses, and make you cry with my frankness. Life was found on my pages, and it was touching. Truly. My grammar, my syntax – everything was on point. I was at the top of my game. I could feel it. I felt like the very best possible version of myself. I felt invincible and alive.
And now? I feel alive, yes. But invincible? Hardly. I feel untouchable, that’s true. But in a different way. Before, I was cunning, manipulative, aggressive, hard, and unyielding. You could pummel me with the best that you had, and I’d never budge. You could battle me, and I’d come hard and fast and knock you on your ass.
These days, I don’t compete. I’m too confident in my abilities to sink to that level of baseness. I prefer instead to sit aloft my perch and amuse myself with those who spend their time and energy on pointless drivel like popularity contests and attempting to keep up with the Joneses. I am earnest, honest, resilient, meek and adaptable. You can’t possibly hurt me because in wanting to hurt me you’ve exposed yourself as the worthless piece of shit that you are, and you don’t get any of my time or attention.
If this all sounds very grade school, I can’t help it. If I sound like I’m completely conceited and arrogant, I can’t help that, either.
This is what I learned when I attempted to start a new blog: I have to learn not to sugarcoat. I have to remember what it is to be real. I have to understand that, sometimes, life is unbelievably amazing and positive and full of rainbows and sunshine and vacations to beautiful locations that inevitably cause me to enjoy myself so much that I forget to ever take out my camera. And there are other times – oh my, are there other times! – when life is dark and cruel and a seemingly endless barrage of challenges that leave me spent and exhausted and angry and sad and wanting to hide under a rock or claw someone’s eyes out or feeling undeserving of anything good.
I am human. I can’t be afraid to celebrate every single drop of humanity. I can’t be afraid to talk about how much Rob’s relationships with his family members confuse the hell out of me; or about how, when Riley is quietly playing by himself, I watch him and wonder if he’s really as bored as I am; or how I constantly teeter between loving the Philippines and wishing to holy hell that I hadn’t left New York City.
I think, lately, with all the change happening, there have been times when I couldn’t help but get trapped by Them. There are times when I couldn’t help but bend to Their will, to pretend to be shiny and happy and normal or better than most people. But the truth is, sometimes I read my past blogs and see the strain of trying too hard. Sometimes I hear my own voice saying words that I’ve typed on a page, and I can’t help but feel like I’m trying to convince myself of something. Sometimes I look at my little page on the web and realize that I am flailing, failing, figuring things out to be different than what they really are; or unsure of exactly what I have, who I am, and what I want. Sometimes, I write because there is nothing else I know how to do but purge my mind of all the thoughts I’ve incurred and hope they make sense to someone.
Sometimes, I am blank and feel helpless and want to cry out but am too afraid of being laughed at. Sometimes, I want to admit things that I should never admit to. Sometimes, I am scared and fragile and untrusting. Sometimes I feel the overpowering urge to hurt someone deeply and profoundly. Sometimes I am ugly, and it’s that ugliness that makes me beautiful – I’m convinced. It’s that flaw that makes me human, makes me relatable, makes me lovable, makes me real. And I have to embrace those flaws, those realities, those patches of ugly/beauty that I’ve evolved from and continue to evolve into. They force me to evolve into the protagonist of the next leg of my own story.
When it comes to blogging, that’s what I must learn: How to tell when the good simply balances the bad, and I’m simply telling it how it is; and how to tell when I’m being afraid of showing just how ugly/beautiful I really am.