I don’t want to confess that I’m an obsessed fan. But I’m an obsessed fan. I love your blogs. I love your writing, I love your heart and your soul. On some days, that is. On some days I wait, hoping you will write, say anything, even if you think it isn’t good. On some days I watch for you, encouraged that you’ve popped your head out even just for a few minutes, to say something to the world. I don’t even care if you’re saying, “I hate the world, I hate everything, I hate you, fuck off.” It means you’re alive and I’ve felt your presence another day. It must be true because I miss you when you don’t post.
Sometimes all I want to say to the world is “I hate the world, I hate everything, I hate you inasmuch as you are part of the everything, fuck off.” There are days when the drama of my family, and the awfulness of work, and the busy of the things that have to be done and the wishing I could do what I want to get done, is just so maddening, it’s better to say nothing to them so I say it here instead because I want to get it out before it poisons me more. There are days when I’m so shelled over, or so shell-shocked by life’s events, or so forced-to-be-busy that I don’t write. And so I understand when you want to be left alone. Me and Pieces of Bipolar were discussing the whole brilliant actor thing and the Garbo quote came up. I want to be *left* alone, but I don’t want to *be* alone. I want to be left alone with you.
There are days when your words, your heart, your spirit, seem so strong that I read your words and I feel your courage. The word courage is one of my favorites, coming from the French root Cour-, which means heart. (and then the other thing I like, which has nothing to do with word origins, is that it contains the word -rage. I know it isn’t right, but when I see the word in there, it validates the feeling.
There are days when your words are so broken, your heart is so fragile, that I just want to wrap my arms around you and give you a hug and pray over you. When you remember the bad things that happened in your past, when you tell me about current events, I cry with you and you never see the tears. I want the very best for you but I know that this life is broken. Because I know how badly *my* life is broken.
When I started this blog I wanted to vent the rage and the sadness and started tracking my mood swings and I wanted to offer encouragements and validations. And you’ve welcomed me in spite of the frequent bitch-and-moan. There are days when my heart is broken, when my life is so broken, and your comments and replies, even on other blogs threads, make me smile even if I can’t laugh. Some days I reread some of my blogs and they’re boring and repetitive. I’m just surprised people have read it and then kept reading. I wanted to vent the frustrations of daily life, and if I happened to have a happy thought I wanted to share those with you.
Flashback to Peter Pan. I can’t fly because I think about how hard life is and I don’t have any pixie dust. I still hate the fight, and question all the time why it’s so hard to just live and next to impossible to feel anything I think normal should feel like. I want that normal so bad. I want it for me, and also for you. But when I see that you’re still here, fighting it out, grasping depths of courage you didn’t know you had, even if you don’t necessarily feel successful, or normal, I have my happy thought.