I'm an intense, hyperactive woman with an imagination in overdrive who loves her Husby, her two Wonder Wieners, and her emerging career as an author and photographer.

Monday, March 13

I am Needy. I am Worthy.

My problem is not that I don't have anything to say. I struggle with apathy and inertia because I have far too much to say, and I don't know where to start. Each time I try, I'm overwhelmed with more choices than a bad Chinese menu. The indecision stops me cold. Another complication is the disconnect between my intellect and my emotions. I simply cannot cram for the finals in Feelings 101 enough to allow my emotional intelligence to catch up to my Mensa IQ. There's no immortality in private genius. If I let even a chink appear in the rock of composure which holds back the Yangtze of my emotions, the immensity, speed, and power of them destroy me utterly. I cannot function on a daily basis.

As I look back on the short life of this blog, I see brilliantly reflected a large part of who I am. It shows how I most often wrap myself as a present to the world, with flashy paper and bows of humor. Look, doesn't this make you happy? These bits and bytes are full of pretty photography and humorous escapades of my dogs and minutia of everyday living. I play it safe and anonymous. Only once in a great while do the deepest of my innermost heart's secrets peek through, escaping from the places where I try to protect the wounded bits of me. Depression is such an evil illness in its insidiousness, it robs me of my very self: creativity, vitality, adventurousness, and most of all, fearlessness. Where is that brave and joyous girl? Where's the girl who wandered through Europe, learning the languages as she went, getting lost and speaking terribly and getting corrected and not minding any of it? Where's the young woman who left a six year career one day with no idea what she was going to do next, and wasn't afraid of the unknowing? Only in the last two years, while I worked on the dog book, did that brazen me occasionally return; even then, it was a daily struggle.

I cannot even fully revel in what should be proud, solely joyous moments. For example, my fabulous story being published this week in Bark Magazine (see Essays & Poetry).

No one but my closest friends can see my disfigurement. Even my family, other than my husband, has no idea of the depths and breadths to which I have sunk. Sometimes, I wish I had visible scars on my body to represent the inner ones. I want to be able to pull up my shirt and show you the scar tissue and say, "See! I told you it hurts." Somehow, I think that would make it more legitimate, give me more sympathy from others and more support from the world in general. Hey, Universe! Give me a fucking break already!


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