It seems like I should write about the fact that I’m helping move my sister into her apartment tomorrow for her senior year of college. Or that I’m going to a narcolepsy conference this weekend (I’m excited for this – I learned such a great deal at the one last year and hope the same will go for this year). Or the disgusting white supremacist protests in Virginia. Or something else – it’s always what I feel I should write about.
What do I want to write about? Start, stop, contemplate. One, two paragraph and then scrap it. I should be doing something other than writing says the little voice in my head.
The voice I live with said the other day “I don’t know why you didn’t just hurry up and eat so you could go with her. What are you going to do, sit on your laptop?” This was deeply triggering to me for some reason, and I spent the better part of an hour after this interaction trying to figure out why.
“I just thought it’d be nice for you to go with her.”
The tone had me nervous, justifying and trying to explain myself – trying to convince her that I was still going to be productive. I heard myself say that I actually had things to do, like finish my laundry, do the dishes and clean my room. All I wanted was rest. To be clear, I’m in no physical danger. This is my mother, who allows me to live with her, pays for most of my food, my car insurance and phone plan among other things. I’m grateful.
The problem is that there is always an undercurrent of not being grateful enough.
Not what I want…
I don’t want to be writing about my mother. I want nothing more than to have a healthy relationship with her, especially at this point in my life. I should right? The shoulds both drive me and torment me – I should be living on my own, in a different city or state perhaps, should have a job doing what I love and have expertise in, should be dating and falling in and out of love, should be doing little things to show appreciation to my parents for all their hard work in raising me. Some of those I know aren’t possible, others feel like they are, but it’s me not putting in the effort.
There was a period of about 6 or 7 years where I saw myself as a complete failure more often than not. I didn’t share these thoughts or views, and now that I’ve been working on it, I realize nobody else can tell a difference. It’s rather lonely. I want validation for ‘all’ I’ve been through, ‘all’ I’ve overcome, ‘all’ my potential – but how can I expect that if I don’t believe it’s true first?
I think the reason I keep alluding to the same things (over and over… and over) without any coherent story-line is because of the above. I don’t believe I have a story worth sharing, not really. I want someone to tell me I do, to tell me it’s safe and that there’s really something here. Is there?
Another issue: If I start telling a story, I feel like I have to do it perfectly. One story requires context from another story and then I’ll realize I’ve left something out in this part and then I just think that there’s no way I can… do my own story justice? How conceited! What the hell? My first feeling is disgust, but why? I don’t find myself inherently disgusting anymore… but I still see my own self-promotion that way. Everyone else, it’s fine, it’s great! People need to share their stories! I love hearing those pieces of people they’re brave enough to share and allow others to carry with them as precious treasures. It’s just… mine, at least anything beyond what I’d include on a resume.
It largely seems I just want to write about myself. And I feel guilty about that, like there are much more important things to address and it’s selfish to focus on myself. Yet here I am… How are other bloggers so vulnerable? How do they throw caution to the wind and allows themselves to just be, in all their glorious flaws, struggles and continuing lessons? Or face that fear of being found and having real life repercussions?