and, I did start somewhere. I kept a journal from the age of probably 9, when I just recounted new shoes I’d worn or which BFF had been rude. I always wrote my feelings down. Then. A hurricane took them all and made them illegible. I think I have them somewhere, just for posterity. I have spent a lot of time hating that hurricane, and I am visibly moving into the acceptance of the life it threw me in to, against my will. Nature can really fuck shit up.
I am the anxiety-ridden child of two parents who are of the “it’s all in your head” generation. I’ve grown to feel apathy for them; but, it’s been a very long and tedious journey. One I don’t think ends.
I am the average height, overweight sibling to a tall, athletic, book-smart older brother who has worked just as hard as I have to accept me, and vice versa. We are very different and just alike. Our problems sort of mirror themselves, but the way we approach life and its problems is polar opposite. Respect has kept a bond between us, that we both appreciate and reciprocate.
I was married. It is sadly forgettable and overshadowed by the darkest time in my life. Well, let me say, one of the darkest. He was a good man, is a good man. But I am all in or all out–to a fault. He is but one casualty of my inability to balance.
I have no children, by choice. I was often told I would change my mind, even crave the need to nurture. I believed these people, but it never happened. I can barely nurture myself–and oddly, I knew that even as a young child as I was being nurtured. I didn’t learn to self-soothe until I was in my early thirties. It explains a lot of unnecessary angst. Doesn’t change it, just defines it.
I have been involved in LOTS of therapy over the past twenty years, this blog is going to serve as my own release. I fully believe that is how all writers become-writers. Release. I want to be a writer. But, like most writers, I am terribly insecure about what to write, who my audience would be, would they even care. So, here is the first step.
And, I feel like it will possibly turn into a Pulp Fiction-esque timeline because my life is better told out of order. The balance of a chronological biopic would be just another thing I avoid. Oh. I am a HUGE procrastinator. Like, wasting years of my life is a hobby of mine. Or, maybe it is a guilty pleasure?