The holidays came and went, and I posted nothing on my blog. They weren’t bad, just sort of there. There were beautiful moments, boring moments, and moments in between. But nothing that I wanted to share with the world – just my own private little moments of joyous festivities, family, friends, and fearing the weather (these Northern California storms have been no joke!).
I don’t know what happened. Nothing eventful or worthy of noting has occurred in the past few weeks. I think it has been more so a mini series of interactions that led to little nagging thoughts. Microcosms; death by a million paper cuts. I didn’t see it coming but if I think carefully about it now I can pinpoint a conversation here, a passing comment there. Each little and unremarkable on its own, but compiled one after the other after the other… Has led me to where I am today. Silent. Unwilling to speak on topics I was once not only willing, but excited to share.
I was out and about running some errands with the tiny human and I had this brilliant idea for a blog post. And then, just like that, I forgot what I was going to write. All I could remember was the title of the blog post: Criminal (not the show though). I can’t for the life of me recall any bit of it, even though it felt like almost too much to write. Later, I thought of another topic I wanted to write about, venting about a situation at work. Then it all seemed like too much to say and too much information, too much like complaining. In the span of these past few weeks, I have had too much to say to you, friends. And if you know me, you know what happens when I have too much to say – I say nothing at all. Retreating in silence is my safe space. I am sure many can relate.
Even now, I struggle to find the words to say anything at all (I am sure that is funny given all that I have written thus far). I feel like there is so much I want to share, but also somehow no longer feel the comfort with vulnerability on this blog that I once did. I once felt like an open book. Which was very different from what I was raised to be – private, quiet, suffer in silence. People were not allowed to see you weak or with emotion. At some point… No, I know at what point. At the point I began to understand and control the Babadook, I felt like it was almost a moral obligation to be vulnerable. I told myself – if I can help one other little sad lonely kid like me know they are not alone in the world, then it is worth it. This sentiment was magnified and compacted with the process of pregnancy and birth of my daughter. A love letter to her, so she could know me now, like I know me now. And perhaps not in any way that when she is older she may know me as – which may be stories from a failing memory.
It’s funny, the things I am referring to are truly unremarkable things, comments and conversations with people that ultimately are of no importance in my life. I think it is less who spoke to me and about me, and more about what they said. I won’t go into details but I suppose I can narrow it down to this culminating thought process conclusion: if this is what people who do not truly know me, are thinking and saying about me, then why have this blog? If perception is reality, and the perception of me is that I am essentially not a great person, then why bother to try to share any part of me with the world, when the world so willingly and outwardly rejects me?
I am exhausted. It is exhausting having to show people there is depth and kindness behind all of these tattoos, crazy hair, weird voice, and crazy laugh. It is exhausting explaining the difference between not caring what people think of me, but also not wanting to be openly judged and insulted. I am comfortable in my own skin, it is true. That does not mean that I need people to tell me how uncomfortable they are with the person I am. When I say “comfortable in my own skin” I mean both inwardly and outwardly. I am blunt, honest, and I don’t treat everything like it is a secret unless you tell me it is a secret. That does not make me mean, rude, inconsiderate, or a gossip. I don’t take everything so seriously, I do not beat around the bush, and I don’t like my time wasted. And if that level of directness is not for you, then you are not for me. I am also chubby and covered in tattoos, with Crayola red hair, and a voice and laugh that you could recognize from a mile away. If I didn’t like these things about me, I would change them, but I like me, and if it is not for you, then you are not for me.
I will say it again, if I am too much for you, then you are simply not enough for me. And that is okay. Here is the key difference between me and those people – I am honest but I have manners. So while these people tell me or tell others who tell me that they are bothered by me, or call me names, or when they only want to associate with me around certain audiences and make it obvious – I sit here, silent. With my good manners and good looks, pretending not to notice. Pretending I don’t see them for who they are. With my good manners and my good looks I sit here silently. Unwilling to give these people the time of day because their ignorance will not change, and my time and my breathe are worth more than all of them combined.
Now, I know what you are thinking – if I do not care and they are irrelevant, then why say all of this? Well, friend, because it was only in typing this that I was able to come to the realization of what was bothering me. Notice I said WHAT and not WHO. I had this pain that I could not put into words, but it was stopping me from writing again – and ironically, it was writing again that helped me uncover the cause of the pain. Now I can let it go, bruised but not broken. Reminding myself that people who are not important have unimportant things to say.