I erased all of my old posts. They were all about relationships and well... That's annoying, to be quite honest. I don't want everything I put in this blog to be about that particular aspect of my life.
It's good to vent, don't get me wrong - but I don't want my writing to fall into the wrong hands. I just can't risk that. If you read my first post, it centered on that topic for a bit - the topic of privacy.
In fact, I'll still post about relationships here. I think my problem lies in letting go, for the most part.
Today I deleted some old text messages on my phone. Deleting my posts on here that circled around the same person feels therapeutic - a small piece of the bigger picture.
I have been depressed for a long time. It's been years, and yet I don't seek therapy.
I recently got the first job I've had in years. I start this upcoming Tuesday. I feel like its really going to set me on the right path! I have been focusing too much on relationships lately. I've been putting unneeded pressure on the topic. This job means I'm letting go.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Jetse
Hi Blogger! I'm an old Xanga user who needs a strong sturdy vent. I haven't written a blog or personal daily journal in a very long time. I like to write in depth and with raw emotion. I do not know if I will allow myself that pleasure here, but it's a start.
I stopped writing a very long time ago because of my mother. I used to journal every day as a child - writing and drawing are my first loves. In my writing I would recount the entire day's events, my frustration, my romantic feelings, everything. Back then, my writing was boundless. There was nothing holding me back.
Until one day, my mother read my journal. She hatefully recited some of my entries, completely lacking understanding and compassion for my age and lack of knowledge about the world. She could have calmly explained to me why she disagreed with or didn't like what I wrote, but instead she only made me feel ashamed.
I grabbed hold of the poor purple spiral bound notebook and while crying hot tears of shame and suffering, turned on the sink in my bathroom and began tearing and soaking the pages. When they were all soaked I flushed the mulch down the toilet. My mother hadn't suggested I do this, and I don't know how the idea possessed me.
I began to write in private and hide my book. But, I was careless again and again my mother found it and demeaned me for it. I eventually learned that physically writing was bad news. Anybody can find your deepest feelings and promptly shit on them.
And then, the lovely Internet came into my life. On Xanga I poured my heart out, for the most part. There are still painful things about my life that I feel I'll never write about because of the barrier my mother and I forged so long ago. I hope that someday I will be able to write freely again. Maybe this blog will help me get to that point.
I still kept some journals despite my inner struggle, and when I feel they are too revealing or unnecessary, I have my odd soak/mulch/flush ritual. Realistically I believe my blocked off expressions leaked into my art. My images can talk to me about my suffering, anxiety, happiness, loves, and nobody else really knows about it. Words are blatant and cutting, but my images are vague and vivid. Hopefully I will be able to share some of my work on here at some point. But since I want this site to be relatively anonymous, I may not be able to. I still have that barrier.
The few physical journals I have kept are dreaming journals. For the past 2-3 years I have documented at least 80% of my dreams. Nobody can interpret my dreams but me, so I feel relatively comfortable writing them. I hold back sometimes when dreams get too sexually strange because I cringe at the thought of someone rereading such a mess! But other than that I pretty much record everything quite graphically.
It is nice to meet you, Blogger. Since I am updating you via SMS, I expect to post daily. I'm a bit of a textaholic!
I stopped writing a very long time ago because of my mother. I used to journal every day as a child - writing and drawing are my first loves. In my writing I would recount the entire day's events, my frustration, my romantic feelings, everything. Back then, my writing was boundless. There was nothing holding me back.
Until one day, my mother read my journal. She hatefully recited some of my entries, completely lacking understanding and compassion for my age and lack of knowledge about the world. She could have calmly explained to me why she disagreed with or didn't like what I wrote, but instead she only made me feel ashamed.
I grabbed hold of the poor purple spiral bound notebook and while crying hot tears of shame and suffering, turned on the sink in my bathroom and began tearing and soaking the pages. When they were all soaked I flushed the mulch down the toilet. My mother hadn't suggested I do this, and I don't know how the idea possessed me.
I began to write in private and hide my book. But, I was careless again and again my mother found it and demeaned me for it. I eventually learned that physically writing was bad news. Anybody can find your deepest feelings and promptly shit on them.
And then, the lovely Internet came into my life. On Xanga I poured my heart out, for the most part. There are still painful things about my life that I feel I'll never write about because of the barrier my mother and I forged so long ago. I hope that someday I will be able to write freely again. Maybe this blog will help me get to that point.
I still kept some journals despite my inner struggle, and when I feel they are too revealing or unnecessary, I have my odd soak/mulch/flush ritual. Realistically I believe my blocked off expressions leaked into my art. My images can talk to me about my suffering, anxiety, happiness, loves, and nobody else really knows about it. Words are blatant and cutting, but my images are vague and vivid. Hopefully I will be able to share some of my work on here at some point. But since I want this site to be relatively anonymous, I may not be able to. I still have that barrier.
The few physical journals I have kept are dreaming journals. For the past 2-3 years I have documented at least 80% of my dreams. Nobody can interpret my dreams but me, so I feel relatively comfortable writing them. I hold back sometimes when dreams get too sexually strange because I cringe at the thought of someone rereading such a mess! But other than that I pretty much record everything quite graphically.
It is nice to meet you, Blogger. Since I am updating you via SMS, I expect to post daily. I'm a bit of a textaholic!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)