If it's NOT "The Count of Monte Cristo" I have no freaking idea.

"We love what we love. Reason does not enter into it... Anyone can love 'because.' That's as easy as putting a penny in your pocket. But to love something 'despite.' To know the flaws and love them too. That is rare and pure and perfect." -Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear


You should probably ignore this post. To be honest, I'm not certain I'm going to publish this post.

I don't recall which classic story ended in the perpetrator getting walled into a room forever. I thought it was The Count of Monte Cristo, but I'm likely incorrect. I just have a vivid mental image of him screaming through the tiny remaining open space as the final brick slides into place.  

That's where I am right now. Only I'm bricking myself into my own prison.  

Amidst all the horrific stress and terror of the past month, I've been desperately pushing down/aside/away other things that have cracked my foundations and left me on precarious footing. I locked it all away for a time, ignoring everything for weeks under the wave of fear and worry associated with the accident. Now that Husband is doing significantly better and I no longer wonder if he'll live, I'm getting to the point that if I DON'T let something out that last brick will slide into place. And I'll be trapped in self-imposed isolation.

Ultimately, the main drama will be resolved somehow or another, and it doesn't really matter what it was (because it will eventually be dealt with). What matters for this post is this: I'm a person with many acquaintances and very few real friends (by friends I don't mean people who consider me their friend: I mean people I'm willing to trust and lean on when I need them).

I don't trust easily or well, and I don't let many past those outer periphery "I know you and generally like you some" edges. When I discover someone isn't actually trustworthy in my moral code, fair or not, I purposefully withdraw from everyone. I bury everything deep under a pasted-on a positive attitude and keep going on the outside.

On the inside I'm slapped by shock, followed by incendiary overwhelming anger, followed by humiliation and despair...who hold red-hot pokers in their evil little hands and beat me as long as I let them. Those devious bastards insert and foster dark thoughts and invite anger back to the party, particularly when I'm alone at 3am.

And now I'm sorely tempted not to trust anyone again. I'm caught between "you never should've anyway" and "if you don't open up now and again you'll be alone."

I'm aware of the over-dramatic nature of my anxiety, pain and depression. I'm even aware that my moral code is harsher than most and likely an unfair standard, particularly in certain situations. I find this to be somewhat of a failing in my character, that opening up isn't often worth the risk to my heart. It's a part of me that's been under construction for quite some time as I try to keep myself from alienating people in general and be more...positive...about humans.

Husband keeps telling me how proud he is of me for dealing with everything that's going on and keeping it together, but all of that is an utter sham. I'm not and don't deserve any sort of praise here. I'm a brick or two away from being completely walled-in and emotionally frozen. I'm not suicidal. I'm just broken. I don't know what to do about it.

I put the quote about love at the top of this post to remind myself what I want to work toward: loving despite and including flaws. Even when I'm talking about my own.

Thus I Learn Blogging Lessons From the Interwebz

I can tell my writing the past few posts has been shitty. To those who actually read the entire posts in question, I apologize for that.

Sometimes I have silly, irrational hopes that someday more than 25 people will actually look at my blog in a day. I know that should that ever happen I'll get snarky trolling comments, I mean this is a public forum and all. Honestly I'm sort of looking forward to them (usually they're funny as hell). I expect people not to get me or what I wrote on a particular day, and I expect nastiness because many people are meaner on the webz than they are in real life (ah, anonymity, you lovely sheltering bitch).

Today I hit a fabulously awful anxiety-and-insecurity wall about writing anywhere except my own damn diary which even my husband doesn't read. See, I didn't expect snarkiness to come from people I know personally, and I really didn't expect said snark to be so utterly out of touch with what I'd posted. Maybe if I'd written better, clearer posts things wouldn't have been missed or taken so totally out of context.

The worst part is reviewing what I'd originally written (because obviously I had something bad in there, right?) and realizing that even after proofreading and letting a post sit for a day or two before a final read-through I STILL might not have been clear enough. I thought it was.

Unpreparedness isn't an excuse, I know, but it still hit me. Yeah, I know: toughen up whiny bitch. I'm a fucking fool for letting a couple of things picked apart out of context bother me. I know it. I still cry a disappointed tear or three when I get a rejection from a magazine and stuff too, so this isn't terribly unusual. Hell, I cried when I got a good review of a story I'd written (much to my husband's amused bafflement). The question is: was it bad writing, or bad reading? I don't know, but I'm working on improving the writing because I have no control over whether someone fully reads something I wrote, or whether they get it.

In the meantime I'll let you know a secret or three about me:

1) I'm not terribly funny. If you want a funny blog go read The Bloggess or Hyperbole And A Half. Sometimes weird shit happens to me, and I find some of it hilarious so I post it. I guarantee it won't be funny to everyone. 

2) I'm not doing this blog for money (look Mom, no ads!) or publicity or even notoriety. Know what? I'm not a goddamn expert on writing, blog or otherwise. If I was I'd likely be writing for a living, not as what should be a fun hobby.

3) This blog is not about you unless I specifically mention your name in print (which I'd never do anyway since then you could probably sue me for the nonexistent profits of this shit I'm posting, or something...I'm not a lawyer). It's my blog, these are my thoughts, my mentalness, my anxiety, my writing: by default 99.99% of the posts are likely to be about me. Is that selfish and narcissistic (and likely boring as hell)? Yupper! Do you have to read it? NOPE! Should you take anything I say here seriously? Probably not.

4) Bonus tidbit: I'm not appropriate: I swear, I talk about sex, I have very little patience for stupid and mean.

I'm not as thick-skinned as I'd like to be. Yet.