he suggests, gently, that I might get more use out of time meditating than time blogging. this is quite likely true, these days, since mostly I write quick rehashes of recent events and post the odd link or two. I’m often wary about writing too deeply of my own life…I’ve been burnt, once or twice, by public personal writing, even in this very medium. moreover, there’s something troubling about writing something so fleeting as an internal state or ephiphany in a form that will never entirely disappear from the public eye. (god bless Google) unlike, by contrast, the box of journals in the downstairs coat closet – I only need to experience the joys, tortures and embarrassment of previous years if I really want to, and no one else sees them unless/until I’m ready.
maybe I’m drawn to this painfully public medium (the weblog) because I am such a secretive person all the rest of the time. maybe I’m drawn to writing because I’m fascinated by secrets, because I’m uncomfortable revealing myself fully…after all, as a writer you are who you say you are. As a fantasy or sci-fi writer, you even get the call on what the whole world looks like. but I don’t make things up in here, nor in my journal.
not to say that I don’t not say things or prevaricate or try to put the best face on it…more so here than in my paper journal, in which I allow out all sorts of hurt, anger, whining and the like…but I don’t lie.
now I’m not sure where I was going with that thought. which is probably why meditating would be a good idea.
I’ve been extremely high strung the last week or so – tired, edgy, irritable, too many balls in the air. except that it’s nowhere near so extreme, not really. as Kat said, “people buy houses every day, Elaine.” and I have this job that I actually care about and I enjoy what I do and I’m living with (married to!) someone I adore who is smart and perceptive and caring. (yes, there’s the cats, too.)
this is the step where I become a grown-up, for real now. it’s not the job(s) or getting married or buying a car or getting my driver’s license. a house. a place where I could live for the rest of my life, if I really wanted to. an incredibly huge financial obligation that I can’t fuck up. and there’s something else, that I can’t quite articulate.
there’s a bunch of other things, of course…how I feel about my family and how I feel about Chad’s family…the prospect of commuting and losing some of the looseness of home being around the corner and down the street…my intense dread of moving…a future of home improvement and gardening tasks, and wondering if I have the competence to tackle them.
that’s the crux of it, really. competence and confidence. on good days, I have both in spades. I was a teacher’s pet, after all. but on bad days, I start wondering if it’s even worth it to attempt tying my shoelaces. and I want so much to be competent, to be good at things, to know and understand what’s going on. he’s right: I hate being wrong, and I’ll hide or even lie to avoid showing ignorance or incompetence. (I think another relationship elsewhere in my life finally clicked into place. I can be more chill now.)
so the obverse of my reassurances to myself that everything’s okay: I procrastinate, especially if it involves calling someone on the phone. I tune people out and drift along on my internal storytelling. I’m not writing, and I don’t know when (or even if!) I’m going to start again. I hate making doctor’s appointments, and I often wonder if it’s all in my head. (esp. the likely progression of RSI.) I have my grandfather’s prediliction for telling the same goddamn story over and over again. I forget things that I’m supposed to do.
and the important addendum: none of this means that I’m an awful person, just flawed, like everybody else. the wish for perfection is achingly strong, but I think it’s a fool’s goal. there’s always better. but perfect, no.
damn. I just remembered that I wanted to register for that programming class. am I still going to take it? I’m not sure. I want to, though.