I’ve seen a lot of talk lately about blogging breaks. Maybe it’s the time of year… maybe it’s just coincidence. I don’t know… and it doesn’t matter. But I do have a point, I promise.
I have been trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with me. In relation to blogging, I mean. In relation to everything else… well, that will always be a mystery… that not even professionals can explain.
I started to sort through my blogging issue through a few comments I wrote on other blogs. [I’m sorry if you happened across those comments and find this post a bit repetitious…]
Okay. Here we go.
I haven’t been around much. You may have noticed. Or not. I didn’t plan to take a break. It just kind of happened. But… it didn’t really happen… because I haven’t really been on a break. [I feel like I’m having a Rachel-Ross argument with myself over whether or not I was on a break.] I didn’t consciously decide to stop posting and I haven’t completely disappeared. I’m still lurking about. I just have nothing to say because I am the most boring person on earth. And possibly the most unpleasant.
I’m having a lot of trouble writing (it’s been fucking months… miserable), and when I do, I hate what I write. I hate the very words I’m typing right now. When I come to read everyone else’s blogs, I feel like a failure because everyone else can write but I can’t. It upsets me far more than it should. It’s painful and I often cry. But I don’t want to abandon my friends. And I don’t want to be alone. If I’m not around here with you guys, I’m sad… and lonely. It’s painful and I often cry. So being here is hurting me. And not being here is hurting me.
I don’t know where to be… or what to do.
I have unintentionally arrived at a place where I’m posting less… and being around less in general. Maybe that’s my new ‘routine’… but again, it feels both better and worse.
When the painful boredom strikes, I want to be here more. But it’s not working because when I am here, I feel inept… inadequate… incompetent. But when I’m not here, I feel alone… lonely… useless. Nowhere is the right place for me.
No… I take that back. There is a right place for me. It’s just not real. It’s a place of escape… a place where I can ignore my whole life and pretend I’m someone else.
The closest I’ve come to that place recently was a visit with my kids to my mom’s for a couple of days. I pretended my life wasn’t a total disaster. I pretended I was on vacation (as if I could afford one… what a joke). I spent money I don’t have. I ate carbs I don’t need. And this is horrible, I know, but my husband wasn’t with us and I pretended he didn’t exist.
I wasn’t bored… I was living, however briefly, in circumstances different from my usual reality. Because, I guess, I wasn’t living in reality. There was a lot of pretending… a lot of ignoring… a lot of denial.
So… in conclusion, I don’t know anything… I only feel good in my imagination… and I don’t know where to go from here.
©2018 what sandra thinks