Part of growing up, I think, is understanding that, no matter what you do, there will be people who don’t like you, and accepting that as the way things are. The second part of that is understanding that it doesn’t matter.
Every so often, my life comes under attack from one direction or another. Whether it’s [edited for inappropriate exmarital referential content], or some loony fundie troll who reads blogs and sends nasty emails, or just another queer with a problem with my take on life, the universe, and everything, sometimes my blog becomes a weapon to other people. These moments always make me stop and wonder if it’s really worth it.
Is it worth putting so much ammunition for hateful people out into the ether like this? I write very personal things. I write nonfiction. I write fiction. I write soul-searching self-analysis, and I write out my frustrations and my fury. These pages hold my pain and my happiness and so many miles of my journey over the last three years. That’s a lot of arrows to leave lying around for someone else to pick up and sling.
It makes me think. It makes me vulnerable to someone who wants to cause pain, who wants to manipulate, who wants to interfere in a life they know nothing about.
It also makes my family vulnerable to the same kind of damage, by proxy.
For the first year and a half of writing here, I was careful – oh, so careful – to keep everything in my real life completely separate from my blog. No one knew I wrote, much less knew that I wrote here. And then, one person at a time, I started allowing cracks in that wall.
I started this post on February 22, 2012. The original draft ended here. I don’t remember where I was or what I was thinking about, but I do know that I came back with a bloody finger when I was poking around the dusty corners of TSOC this morning.
The cracks in the wall led to a flood, as they so often do.
First, [edited for inappropriate exmarital referential content]. Then, a friend or two decided to cut ties because my take on shared experiences was just a little too much to bear. Next, [edited for inappropriate exmarital referential content].
I wonder if I didn’t use all those events as mental justification for not writing anymore. If some little stubborn corner of my brain decided, nope, it’s just not fucking worth it.
Sometimes, I am capable of a level of self-sabotage and passive-aggressiveness that shocks even me.
I hadn’t been blogging a lot by then anyway – lots of reasons – but then life handed me this big, fat, juicy excuse.
And being a chickenshit at heart, I took it.
I’m not proud of it, but I’m pretty sure that’s how it went down.
I’ve developed a nasty habit, over the past couple of years, of curling up into a defensive fetal ball of goo instead of standing up and taking the hits head-on.
I wrote yesterday. I’m writing today. It feels good to stretch my fingers and beat on a keyboard that’s not work-related or to accomplish something adult and productive and responsible. It makes my brain tingle in good ways and makes my breath come a little easier.
It also reminds me I need to trim my fingernails. Desperately. I’m going to wear out my backspace button, fixing the “extra” letters that these claws keep inserting. I type too fast to be this manicured.
It’s hard for me to imagine a me in a universe where I just give up and give in. That doesn’t seem like me, does it? But that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.
That. Sucks. Out. Loud.
What sucks even more is admitting it. And really facing everything I’ve been hiding from. That’s some big, scary shit.
But I guess there’s no time like the present to get the hell off your knees and stop blowing the game.