Catching Idle Butterflies

A momentary fall into insanity

Following is a mental tug of war that ensued in my brain yesterday. Read on to discover who won.

With many other bloggers talking about their pasts of late, especially the painful parts, I hesitate to talk about my own even though reading those stirs up from the slimy bottom of my psyche my own dark memories. I don’t want to be accused of being a copycat.

I could simply say it’s my journal and I can write about whatever I want, but with the discussions of late about blogging and commenting being hot right now, that gives me a secondary pause. It has made me timid enough more than once I’ve considered going back to my paper journal that no one will see until after I die. I wrote some in my word processor just in case I came up with the courage after all (such as this one), but the rest I tried to forget, coming up with something else to write about – something not so emotional and yet having less meaning to me.

And there’s a tertiary pause. I fear by writing about my darkest moments others might think I am looking for sympathy, or worse, pity. This is far from the case. I love my life, and wouldn’t change a thing. I’m a better, more compassionate and – I hope – smarter human being because of my struggles. Yet I am also aware I have very little to lament about as there are so many others who have genuinely suffered in their lives and would have loved to live mine. I can even imagine as I describe all the “horror” I’ve been through people thinking, “Good God! What the Hell are you complaining about? You have no idea what it means to suffer.” And they would be right.

I have written about this before and received encouraging comments telling me not to worry about it. They said most readers like that kind of self-exposure in a journal; that’s the whole point of having one, after all. These words have not yet sunk in apparently, and I have no idea when they will.

I hate this circular thinking and that I have not a smidgeon of courage to be brutally honest in my own blog because of the possible, yet not likely, ramifications.

*Sigh* I think too much.

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Fast forward two hours:

Okay, leave it up to my husband to say something that puts all my worries into the proper perspective.

I just received my new eyeglasses, and the doctor recommended I wear them all the time, not just for reading or staring at a computer screen. Keeping that in mind, I wore them home.

Dave noticed and said, “I like them. You look good. Smarter.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Oh, that sounded like I thought you looked dumb without glasses,” he added. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that.”

I laughed and said, “That thought had never occurred to me.”

Nor had it. I know Dave well enough he never once thought I was dumb.

Which leads me back to my above tantrum. Every fear I described was based on assuming the worst from my readers, not the best. How insulting is that?

Putting myself in a reader’s shoes, I wouldn’t accuse anyone of being a copycat because they wrote on the same subject of another blogger. I would merely think the original entry only led the other person to think about it and they wanted to give their own perspective, or it brought up memories heretofore forgotten that they wanted or needed to share. I usually find I learned something new from both entries.

Nor would I think any of those other thoughts I mentioned above. To my own journal, yes because I’m so hyper-self-critical, but never when reading others. So there’s no reason to assume others would act with less consideration and respect than I would.

If I want this blog to be an honest and true account of my life, my feelings and my thoughts, I have to write whatever needs to be vomited from my brain, however painful at first. I feel so much better with it out of my system.