So goodnight, dear void.

I shut this blog down some months ago, and I wasn’t sure when, or even if, I would ever revisit it. I wrote a good amount in it, for a while, but I wasn’t yet ready to confront myself fully within it. I know this because, inevitably, any time I posted anything, I was gripped eventually, if not almost immediately, by an insane desire to scrub the entirety of it, and possibly myself right along with it, from the earth. I could, and did, write honestly, but in a way that was the biggest problem. I could write these things about myself with a clear mind in the moments of initial expression, but then merely sitting back and being faced with myself as I am, once the words were down, even in bits and pieces, seemed somehow unbearable.

I’m more accepting of myself now. And I do believe I’m at least marginally less a ridiculous asshole than I was the last time I wrote here. I am at least more comfortable now with the fact that no one will likely ever read, nor care, about a single word left here but me.

Truth is: I’m the most impassioned pragmatist you’ll ever know; my fiercely guarded heart is more readily hijacked by hope than my deeply cynical ass will ever permit you to know.

Last year, that absolute bitch of a year, once it became obvious that my only really regular reader had completely disengaged, and that I was, in effect, writing to just one more empty room, I decided it was time to close up shop. It was all just a bit too on-the-nose emblematic of what the year had already cost me, and I did not need any more reminders. I’ve already got plenty of disparate Notepad documents languishing on my hard drive, full of ever-growing strands of thoughts to peck away at, if I really feel that strong an urge to loose another echo down the chamber; doing so in yet another pseudo-public space struck me as rather redundant, if not pathetic. I’m no stranger to talking to myself, after all; no true loner ever is. What use was one more anonymous, lonely space in which to do so? I had grown too disillusioned with it, by that time, to continue sincerely.

I’m not entirely sure what I’m opening this thing back up for, even now, while we’re being honest (and I suppose that would have to be the royal We; there’s no one else here left to address). It may be a decision — now that my mental health is much stronger, and I have far fewer fucks remaining to give — driven entirely by ambivalence. I do miss the community of a space, like an old (much different) blog of mine once had, but which has also since mostly died (yet is another space I seem bound to stubbornly keep alive). Who knows? Perhaps I’m just too old for blogging in this particular platform. I had hoped for more, and even had a bit, for a little while, until I didn’t.

We shall see. For now, I’ve only restored a fraction of the original content that once lived here; either pieces that actually did result in some small form of interaction at the time, or that I might have been somewhat proud of then, even if I’m not at all sure whether I can call myself proud of any of them any longer. The whole thing may disappear again, perhaps permanently, mere months from now; then again, it may not. My patience with its apparent pointlessness remains, for the time being, open, albeit limited. I’m hardly a writer, but then again, if the notion of constructing even the barest memoirs sometime in my future is ever meant to be realized, I imagine I will have to become far more accepting of the yawning futility of this space, first.

The guns of her mind aim a line

It’s been an interesting experience, this past month or so, forcing myself to really re-calibrate the negative pathways in my brain. Discovering that anxiety is at the core of basically everything that I struggle with has been a major illuminating factor, though that still doesn’t allow me to be lazy; understanding the ways in which my brain makes big things out of little things so easily if I don’t check it carefully isn’t enough to actually stop it happening. I have to listen to what it’s saying, recognize that it’s essentially lying to me like a big, neurotic jerk, and focus instead on the things I know or trust to be true.

Though I think everyone on earth must struggle to some degree with trust, I suspect it particularly affects those of us who grapple with anxiety, only because anxiety means there are a lot of things your brain is going to try to convince you of that you fundamentally cannot trust. It’s unsettling to have to recognize that your brain is, in many ways, the most effective liar you’ve ever known. (And I once knew a girl in junior high who literally pretended to be twins. And it worked, for, like, two weeks! That was so insane it was more impressive than anything, though.)  It’s hard work to learn when to stop yourself and say, “No. This is a ridiculous thing to think, and here is why.” With anxiety, your brain likes to lie because it is easy, and because it has gotten very good at it. And who doesn’t like doing what’s familiar and easy?

Essentially, what I’m learning to do now is teach my brain an almost entirely new language, or at least a different dialect of what it’s been speaking to me for a very long time. It’s a bit of a steep learning curve, and I have stumbled a few times along the way, as those closest to me no doubt recognize, but I just keep pushing. Which is why I’m able to, today — even after entertaining a thought that was painful, then grappling with the realization that I had no actual reason to believe such a thing in the first place; even when dressed in a rush and not looking my best by any means — smile a relaxed smile, and breathe easier. It is a process, but it feels as though those atrophied muscles up in my big, silly head are slowly getting stronger.