See, this is why I hate my blog. I have writer’s block. However, here I sit trying to rack my brain for something fascinating to write about and I don’t know if I’ve got anything going on up in there to share.
I remember a time when I always had good material. To be honest, it was because I left the house and when you leave the house, you see or overhear or observe things that you find interesting enough to put down into words. Now I am experiencing a bit of “conditioned agoraphobia” as my shrink calls it and can only really write about what I see on t.v. so often. The remaining things to write about are whatever is in my head pounding away at my brain like a jackhammer and those things are turning my blog into a train wreck.
I don’t think agoraphobia is quite accurate. He made this statement because I was describing to him that I had a damn near panic attack after being told I had to go to the grocery. I didn’t want to go to the grocery, plain and simple. I don’t handle chaos well and the grocery store is nothing but chaos and I just really hate going. I don’t mind leaving the house for fun things, though, so long as I get to go by myself or with the kids, but for socializing… not so much. I really don’t want to deal with anymore relationships at this point. Not in person.
I get restless from time to time and start doing strange things just so that I have something to do. I tend to shower at weird times of the day and always quite spontaneously and as a result, we never have hot water. My thing with showers is weird and it doesn’t have anything to do with germs but it does seem to be a “thing” for me. When things get crazy or stressful, I head to the shower. Boom. Just like that. I drop everything and I go in the bathroom and I turn on the shower to almost scalding temperatures and I try not to scream when I step in. Then, I sit on the fucking bathtub floor and let the water burn away at my flesh. I allow my hair to hang down over my face and I imagine that all of the crazies that are growing and festering inside me are being forced out from the shock of the heat like a feverish sweat before being washed down the drain.
I lock myself in there, in fact, I double lock myself in there. First, the bedroom door and then the bathroom door. You might think I do this to keep people out and in a way I do, but not in the way you’re thinking. I don’t care of someone barges in or anything like that, it’s the sound of people I am trying to keep out. Close one door, then another, then turn on the shower…. if I do this then it is just me and the sounds of millions of raindrops on the ceramic. I could close just the bathroom door, but then I am at risk for someone entering the bedroom and leaving the door open a crack when they leave and then I will be able to hear them. It will shatter my sanctuary and the entire ordeal will have been for nothing.
Another oasis of peace in my house is my laundry room which is rather tiny and about the same size as the bathroom in my room. It has no windows and so I can go in there, shut off the lights, lie down on a pile of laundry, shut my eyes and drown out any noise with the dryer. The dryer makes the best deep, rumbling sound in the world and it is rather like being protected by a very strong man. It makes very masculine noises, the dryer, and it also smells so clean and comfortable that the laundry room seems a logical choice to go when I need a moment and the hot water has run out.
I don’t cry. Not from sadness. I cry when I’m really angry. Maybe I cry because I am mourning something when I get furious, I dunno. At the time the tears begin, I am usually shaking and angry but also knowing that the anger will not change things. It doesn’t seem to have the ability to transform situations quite the way I wish it did and for it to be involuntary is madness to me. I’ve never been in a position before where I had to stop and think about whether or not my emotions do anything at all. Maybe they did once upon a time when you were a hurt child and your tears had people running to hug you, to tell you it would be alright. Perhaps I took that for granted because as an adult, tears mean something different. If tears could speak, this is what they would say:
“Hello. I am tears. I am a pain in your ass, just one more thing you have to deal with. Now that I have come pouring from this woman’s face, run away and don’t look back because as a result of me you will now have to suddenly use your brain to try to think of a way to make me go away. So, it’s either you or me, really. But just so you understand my power, I will become something that makes you panic when I show up at any given time. You will lose the ability to speak or react and then your silence will create much upset for the person who’s face I am seeping from. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
No one wants to put their loved ones through something like that. So, no tears.
I don’t even cry when I’m alone in my shower or in the laundry room. Those are places of happiness for me and I feel safe in the silence I have in there. My brain never shuts off but I am granted a moment to just let it fly and when the thoughts go pound-pound-pounding away, I can just sit there and listen to them instead of having to take on the grueling task of sorting them and handling each one. I can just let them run free and leave it at that.
These places are good for me because they are safe. I could possibly take a nice, brisk walk and that would be fine but my eyeballs have to be open to do that. Eyeballs open means noise. You know that, right? You don’t just hear with your ears anymore, at least I don’t. I could be completely deaf and still be able to see how loud and crazy everything is. Oh, no… eyes and ears off, please. Thus, no crazy hikes through the woods because as peaceful as it may seem to most, every swaying tree branch or trodden upon twig, gust of wind… it is all noise that I can’t control. In the shower or in the laundry room, the sounds are monotonous and there are no surprises to wrap your mind around. It just is and for no reason that I have caused or am blamed for.
I hate this blog because it is just one more way to pick off your friends. Let’s face it… I’m good for the laughs but not so much for the other stuff. I am deciding that this is okay with me. I’m not here to try to be informative and I’m not here to give the news. I’m here because I’m a writer and I write about what I am thinking or feeling or the things that I observe and I try to do it as visually as possible. I think I am learning to understand that certain people only read comedies and this is okay. The only differences is that most writers don’t make friends with their readers or invest half of their free time to their readers who are also writers as well.
This is how blogging is so bizarre. I certainly know how many hours it takes me to get through my blogroll every day and so I know it must be the same for all of you as well. Consider how much time in a day we sit at our computers instead of being productive whether it is at work or at home. As hard as I try to wake up at 6:30 in the morning so that I can start reading blogs, get the boys to school and read and write some more blogs before the girl’s wake up… I am fully aware that I also spend a shitload of time running to the computer to check my email to see if I have comments. When I write the funnies, it’s worth it because I get the comments but when I write what I want to, not so much. Thus, I get more cleaning done.
Not that that is my intention. It’s just how it is.
Authors are different from writers. They write books and then they publish it, spend a few weeks going mad over their reviews and then it’s over. They don’t sit waiting patiently for some other validation that their words have been received and what people thought of them. Writers are pretty conditioned to give a shit every single day whether they write blogs or articles or whatever you might find yourself writing every day. They want approval. They want to have spoken to someone. They want to have gotten the job done and done well.
I am being conditioned at home to expect certain reactions and to receive certain feedback or consequences. I know when to shut my mouth now and what not to say because it will cause less than desirable outcomes. I’m learning this in my blog, too. At home, it’s Dean and here, it is my friends and I am learning that just as I shouldn’t open my mouth to my husband, I really shouldn’t open it to the majority of my friends, either. Dean doesn’t know what to say and neither do my readers. The sooner I accept this, the better off I am and the less my feelings will be hurt, the less paranoid I’ll be and the better I’ll feel about myself.
I feel awful when I write like this. Well, not awful so much as guilty. I imagine my readers showing up at my blog looking for a laugh and getting this instead and I see their faces falling as they say, “oh. It’s this shit again.” before hightailing it out of here. When I write from the heart, my stats go up and my comments go waaaay down and, believe it or not, I understand why. People just don’t know what to say. I have had to decide whether or not the bad feeling I get from that is worth the feeling I get from releasing this junk and I have discovered that it depends on the day. I do have days where I force out the funnies because I miss my friends and want them to stop by and I also have days where I don’t care.
In the end, I’m moody and as I write what I’m thinking and feeling, you never quite know what you’re going to get.
I’m off to take a shower and get some laundry done.