Negative-Naomi, Pessimistic-Peggy, and Temperamental-Tricia were in town today and the Trifling-Trio decided they’d each stab a straw into my soul and slurp it out of me, kind of like how the witches from Hocus Pocus did to kids you know? But without straws because they had magic and well yea, like THAT. Luckily, my toxically sweet soul gave them each a case of stomach-poisoning. But little to my surprise, they all decided they’d go number three all over whatever sunshine was left to shine upon my fucking life and it’s been a somber shit-show ever since. The cunts.
I’ve felt like I’ve been standing hopelessly at an abandoned crossroad lately :::Bone Thugs is playing in the background::: I’M LOST. I am NOT dead waiting on some dark creepy looking angel to come lead me to some high ass cliff because I’m afraid of heights and with that said I’ll probably just take an Uber to heaven when I die J-Dawg, cool? But while I’m alive, I’m not big on the whole Uber thing, so if someone can come and pick me up that would be flippin’ fantastic. I’m right smack in the center of Blogger Street and Isolation Avenue. Alright not-so-nautiucal-Captain listen up BUD: Just GO STRAIGHT and keep going STRAIGHT and whatever you do, do NOT drive yourself over a non-political American cliff. You can’t miss me. I’m 5’2, dark hair, puns will be flying directly over my head like combat jets, I may or may not be impersonating Ludacris and you’ve surely seen posters of me everywhere because I’m famous on the Most-Wanted list for illegal consumptions of exclamation points and emoji-abuse in the third degree. Also, I volunteered you to pick me up. Sorry? (If 99.9% of everyone is confused, that’s ok. This was meant to be an inside joke for .1% of my readers).
On a serious note though: Isolated and lonely. It’s been a pretty consistent feeling since I started writing again. I’m not in any way implying that I’m depressed about writing. No. On the contrary, I haven’t felt this content or confident with myself nor this motivated in a pretty long time. What’s bothering me is what has come with my wanting and needing to write again; this random, and really confusing lack of understanding and support from literally anyone in my life.
It’s pretty much been like-
- Who gives a shit? Big deal. Who even “writes” anymore and seriously? A “blog?!” LOL. It must be one of your phases. –I do. Yes-BIG deal for me. I write and yes I seriously do. Yes a “blog”. No. It is NOT a phase.
- Why are you so into this all of a sudden?-I’ve been writing since I was 7. For the 700th time. 1-you’re an ass. 2-who ARE you? 3-Fuck off. 4- People like YOU are the reason I even write. 5- It matters to me. If I matter to you, then my writing should matter to you as well. 6- Clearly, I do not matter to you. 7- Suddenly, YOU don’t matter to me.
- You must be losing interest in the REST of the stuff/people in your life –Yes. That’s it. I plan on abandoning my children and quitting my job. And I’m just THAT wild now so I’ll be escaping into the jungle to be free and mentally naked like I love to metaphorically talk about in my writing. I’ll be the Tarzan of 2017 with a vagina. I might as well talk the talk right? Might as well be literal.
- What about your kids?–What KIDS? Please see above.
- What are you even writing about like what’s your point? – Maybe if you ever tried to read my writing instead of questioning my every fucking motive FOR my writing, you’d know these answers.
- Is this what you consider good writing?– Oh. SO you did read. You just don’t “understand” right? Clearly. This also tells me you also can’t possibly know me as a person as well as you thought.
How is it even possible that no one really “gets me” in real actual life yet you- yet the ones I’ve met here on WordPress just DO? How is it that I have begun to feel more connected to people that I have never met in my life, than to people that I have known my entire life? How is it that I’ve had more support from you guys, than I’ve had from those closest to me? How is it possible that I’ve made readers laugh out loud, and tell me that they totally relate- yet here I am dealing with silent treatments, ignorance, and accusations of “changing” just because I’ve begun to really do what I’ve had a passion for since I was little girl.
Writing is a lonely hobby/profession. Granted. That’s no secret. It’s especially not common here in a city that never sleeps and preoccupies itself with materialism, plastic surgery, binge drinking, partying, dating, and being shady. But you know what? I’m physically natural. I suck at drinking. My feet were not meant for partying unless it’s a house party where I can show up comfortable, and I am a loaded list of things but shady is not on there. Needless to say, I was born in the wrong fucking
As you may or may not already know, I had a pretty lonely and troubling childhood which I openly share in this post so I’d rather not repeat any of that stuff in detail here. But I will add that I should have been too busy being a kid to have worried and stressed the way that I did for so long. It has really hit home and hurt me now more than ever that I have a child of my own who is currently the age that I was when I lived through those nightmares. And I would sacrifice my LIFE if it meant I had a guarantee that my kids would never have to see such scarring things during their time on this Earth. I never saw any specialists, and when my mother hurt me or when my father hurt her, I was threatened with worse-stuff-to-come if I talked to anyone about it. I was alone. Even when I was a cheerleader with groups of friends. Even when I danced on stages. Even when I played softball. Even when I partied. Inside, I was *ALWAYS* alone with my truths.
My truest friends were every single Goosebumps book that ever existed (and I’ve contemplated purchasing the entire original collection because I loved Goosebumps THAT much and also :::gasp::: Amazon sells them here!) My truest friends were the math workbooks that I voluntarily filled in because I needed to keep *thinking* and distracting myself. My truest friends were the ladybugs that I collected in jars while I pretended I was like a little Jack(ie) Hanna: documenting detailed data about these wild and phenomenal creatures in my Lisa Frank notebooks which I would later enthusiastically broadcast LIVE to an imaginary world watching imaginary TV. My truest friends were the bottles of shampoos and lotions that I’d empty into large pots as I convinced myself (and everyone with dirty hair and dry skin around the house) that I was developing scientific potions that would save humanity someday.
But my very BEST friends- were the diaries that I kept hidden underneath my pillows and beneath my mattresses and guarded with my life. My diaries listened when the adults around me expressed that they were too busy working or being angry at the world to care about what lingered in the mind of a 7, 8, 9, 10 year old girl. My diaries never once judged me or looked at me like I was ridiculous and immature. My diaries accepted me with all of my pain and all of my innocent glory. My diaries greeted me with open locks and bright white pages, blank and eager to be filled with my sweet and sour words. My diaries let me stain their pages with tears in hope that the next day I would return with smiles of relief. My diaries knew all of my deepest darkest secrets; my most irrationally beautiful dreams; my most terrifying nightmares. My diaries were loyal to me, truly. That bond that I had created with writing, was for life.
So, much like we all tend to defend our best friends when someone calls them ratchets or hood-rats (do kids still say that?) or fuck-boys (I cannot STAND the millennials who cooked that one up!) (and what kinds of people are ya’ll even hanging out with though?), I’ve felt the need to defend my relationship with writing.
I’m fucking upset. I’m hurt that I’m being SO incredibly misunderstood, misinterpreted, and questioned on any level at all. I’m bothered that I don’t know how to explain that I’m just here trying to figure myself out via wit and humor and sarcasm and profanity and and drama and excessive use of written emotion. I’m baffled that it seems stupid, irrelevant, childish, or insignificant to those on the “neurotypical” end of the thinking-spectrum. I’m offended that I’ve been accused of living a “second life” because of my writing. Especially since, I am actually THIS person. I AM this person. This is who you see, and talk to every day or whenever. Reading my writing, is the equivalent of having a conversation with me in real fucking life. Just less loud and less annoying and with no awkward eye contact and stuff (I’m so bad with eye contact).
And at the end of it all, take a guess where I turned to when I had nowhere else to go. I turned right back to writing. Because the more you tell a writer NOT to fucking write- the deeper into the jungle that is writing she will go and she will intentionally get lost there and don’t you dare chase her because you’ll be eaten alive by her beasts that roam freely there; beasts of a magnitude you cannot fathom. And that’s where she’s the happiest. That is where she thrives. That is where she feels the safest. She is free there. REALLY free.
You just don’t know her as well as you thought do you? As it turns out, she isn’t like the rest is she? She won’t be easily shaken to conform to some statistical reality. She plays with the shadows of the night when the world rests and her mind is complex beyond the pages of textbook-theory. She thinks with the kind of weightless thought that can not be shackled nor grounded by any gravitational force. She feels with a heart that has been shattered and broken beyond anatomical recognition.
She is fearless and if you fuck with her, she will flee. She is no longer the child who lay in bed at night with a phone on hand; she no longer wishes to protect the ones who harm her; she no longer wants to worry about those who choose to hurt themselves; she will no longer endure unnecessary pain. She’s a wild raging child that can no longer be challenged. It would be wise to let her do what sets her soul on fire and not play with that fire.
They say if you play with fire you’ll get burned.