who needs a hug?

I'm going to admit something that isn't nice. Sometimes I read blogs just to poke myself in the eye to see if it's still a sensitive area. Yep, it still is.

I'm not completely destructive. I like most of the blogs I read but I do have my mean list. I read them and instead of feeling inspired or educated, I feel inadequate.

I'm not as positive, or as good a friend, or as honest, or as productive, and on and on. I reason with myself:

I don't WANT to kick my heels in the surf (well, I do sometimes) or twirl my skirts in the fields and let salty tears run down my cheeks, mooning over the MAGIC of the universe.

I love magic. I love when magic happens. As long as no one uses the word magic too much. I remember living in Olympia, 12 years ago, when I got tired of being a depressive teenager and took Zoloft for a year. I was moony and earthy and went to drum circles and I strongly suspect that I was bo-ring. Rereading that year's journals = painful. I didn't seem to be thinking anything.

I don't blame Zoloft and I'm not anti-drug; I thank Zoloft for dragging me out of the pit and getting me back to normal, my normal. My normal has highs and lows and ups and downs and sometimes when I'm not moving and shaking, I have a hard time getting off the couch but I accept it.

But lately I've been in a weird place with thinking. I'm thinking too much in some ways and not at all in others. There's a lot I want to do - personally and professionally - now that I'm back in Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky. Technically, I have a lot more control over my days and my time and my thoughts now that I'm off tour and back home.

I should be able to enjoy setting up my new apartment and seeing old friends and my family more and reading and writing but I can't seem to focus. I can't think about anything if the corners of the baseboards in the apartment are grimy. I scrub them and that's great until I look up and notice the chip on the kitchen counter. How could I not notice that chip before? I'm such an IDIOT!

How can I take a hour to read a book when there's a chip on the kitchen counter? And when did I start caring so much about chips? I almost had a heart attack when I couldn't get the deadbolt to work and Matthew had to draw me a bath with essential oils and a linen-scented candle just so I'd breathe properly.

Obsession is one thing. I'm used to obsessing over writing and researching and adventuring, but this? This is annoying. Especially since the apartment, overall, is gorgeous.

So while books are temporarily out, I allow myself a moment to check blogs written by other women who seem all centered and in touch with something that's eluding me. They are very open about their struggles but at the same time give the impression that they're sipping a mug of steaming tea and watching leaves flick in the breeze in a way that I, fueled by two pots of coffee and self-imposed daily deadlines, am not.

Yesterday I only got 80 percent of my to-do list finished and thus fixated on my 20 percent failure. I thought about how many people have told me over the years that I have a calming presence. How mellow and cool I am. Sure, I'm cool, I thought, I'm super dope. Right up until I freak out and have to borrow a switchblade to cut someone.

I sort of tried to explain this to Matthew:

a) When I'm not experiencing Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, I have a calming presence. Tons of people think so! Seriously!

b) Sorry you haven't gotten to enjoy that part of my personality much.

and a quick question: c) Does it make me seem more or less neurotic that I'm tired all the time?

I know the answer. More, since I'm not sleeping enough despite being always tired. Yuck.

I tell myself that I don't really like some of the blogs I read but another part of me admits that I'm just jealous. And ungenerous. I imagine that I'd really like the writers in person and that we'd be great friends. As long as they ignore the fact that I'm a bitchy asshole.

This morning I was going to take a few minutes to torture myself by reading a blog from California written by someone who's very open about her journeys and her tears of joy. I was all set to just let that bother me before I hopped in the car to do errands. But I watched a quick video she posted and two things stopped me:



These simple f'ing words. I wanted to react: 'What does that mean? That WHATEVER is okay? That mediocrity is enough?'

Then I thought, 'No, dummy, it means don't be mean to yourself. Quit calling yourself dummy and thinking everything has to be perfect.'

Take a breath, write a blog, slow your roll. Et cetera.


zan said...

My theory is that everyone who writes a blog has some form of neurosis. Otherwise, why would we bother? We're all feeding some insane need. You are in good company, sipping tea or not.

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Lukas said...

[HUG.] Also, I will volunteer to be the unsuspecting Smug McBug who says that he's started meditating daily and thinks that you might find it helpful, too.