I’m never going to be the girl who hears someone say she’s beautiful and simply says thank you. I will argue it to death, until you never want to say it again.
I’m never going to feel like a writer; like much more than a crappy diarist in this blogosphere. Even though I do intend to actually write, to freelance and to even put out a book or few, I still don’t consider myself much more than barely good enough, slash a professional bullshitter.
I’m not going to be able to keep my mouth closed when someone includes me in the group they’ve called Vancouver blogging royalty (mommy-styles, that is). I’ll likely always consider myself a fly on the wall that some of you allow to land in their lives for a bit at a time.
I’m always going to put it all out there, at the behest of friends, loved ones and family – knowing people may be reading it who are just looking for proof of my misalignments.
I’m always, in some possible way, going to protect the privacy of those I’ve mentioned in posts, by changing subtle nuances in relation to time, effort, identity and imagery. This means everything is true, but it’s also not. Get it?
I don’t write to look for acceptance – maybe on some level it’s to encourage it towards someone else who might be just as off-the-wall as I am, but it’s not so that you accept me. It’s because I’ve got words and thoughts and streams floating through my brain and blogging has been thus far in my life the best medium for my mania.
I’m in awe.
When I wrote the post the other night, I didn’t expect many comments. I expected people to see it in their readers and mark as read, or load up the page and see the 87 paragraphs and maybe skim. I didn’t expect whatsoever the impact that it might have had.
The emails I’ve gotten. Your comments. Your wishes and hugs and hopes and own stories. I appreciate it all like almost nothing I’ve ever been thankful for. You guys have left me relatively speechless – which is pretty effing hard to do. (You knew I was jonseing to curse, didn’t you?)
So, while I still am all of the things above, and feel that my ‘writing’ is nothing much more than adolescent angst thrown up 15 years later on the Internet, I have a sense that everyone who said something important and moving to me does not. I have a sense of being myself and okay with it, and with that same person being okay with you all, too.
Most of all. For a fraction of a moment, I felt like I belonged somewhere. Instead of the life-long weariness of remaining intentionally aloof, so as not to get pushed away.
You all just might be making some little chips in the wall I’ve built so firmly around me.
