January 1, 2004<\/p>\n
When writers sit down to write about their own sadness, what is it they wish to accomplish? I\u2019ve been wondering this about myself today as I composed the first line of tonight\u2019s blog: \u201cI\u2019d write about the rather sad and uneventful New Year\u2019s that I had last night, but let\u2019s gloss on to bigger and better things.\u201d This is the line I\u2019ve been thinking all day, but as I crept down the steps, lit a candle, and sat down to write, I seem unable not to write about the last twenty-four hours. I\u2019m not sure why. I\u2019ve written of so many embarrassing moments, so many unsightly ailments and ugly disappointments and I\u2019m just wondering exactly why. Or is it many things? \u201cA lot of things\u201d like my old friend Russ used to say? I know that by writing them down I also work through them. I also admit to them, call these evils by their name, even put a spotlight on them. Do I do this so publicly because that is the only way I\u2019ll own up to what I\u2019ve done? And if so, isn\u2019t that rather false? Isn\u2019t that marching down the street and blowing horns to show my faith?<\/p>\n
Or, by writing them down, do I hope to create change? I think there is a part of me that would admit to this. It\u2019s an odd hope, because nothing has ever changed as a result of posting my issues in this tiny slice of cyber-space. And yet, if I write about going to bed alone at 10:30 PM last night for want of anything better to do, do I at the same time make a grand wish that this will never happen again? Is that what is written between the lines? Or is it a more subtle despair, a quiet \u201cmaybe\u201d that I won\u2019t have to go through that particular trial again? I don\u2019t know. <\/p>\n
My dad once said that when he stepped off an airplane into Anywhere, California, he could suddenly breathe more easily. This state, be it southern or northern, is his home. This state is quite clearly not mine, and so I have to find a way to make it okay for the duration of my time here. I didn\u2019t go to that party last night because 1) some of the people have disappointed me and 2) I didn\u2019t actually want to talk to anyone who was going to show up. I spoke this past summer about wanting to meet people outside of the restaurant and theatre world. What I didn\u2019t realize is that some of the best people I\u2019ll ever know were seated at the kitchen table where I spoke those very words. I came out here to escape my life and am still stuck with myself. (Good company, I mean, I\u2019m not complaining, but still.)<\/p>\n
Honestly, the only real problem here is my incapacitating level of self-absorption. But that is one of the dangers of spending New Year\u2019s Eve with only the company of a bad cold. <\/p>\n
It seems as though I\u2019m almost proud of my misery. I\u2019m not. Ultimately I guess this is the way I deal. <\/p>\n
I dated a man for over five years who thought sadness was weakness. At least, that is how he saw it in others. For him to be sad was poetry, in his eyes. \u201cI never cry. I haven\u2019t cried in years,\u201d he sobbed in my arms, easily the third or fourth time that month. Naturally he was drunk and probably had already bruised me somehow that evening- never with a direct hit, but I bet you I could find the print of his hand somewhere on my body. But if I was feeling blue, or even if he walked in the room and I was staring off into space, he\u2019d call me on it and say, \u201cWhat is with you today?\u201d with a half-smile reeking of malice and disappointment. <\/p>\n
Man, oh man, FUCK YOU, icky dude from my past.<\/p>\n
Maybe that\u2019s it. Maybe because I spent my twenties with a man so utterly full of shit, a man who approved only when I was sunshine and light and butterflies. Lucky for both of us that I often was that happy. But he didn\u2019t want a rounded human being, he wanted a reasonably attractive fuck doll who would laugh at his jokes and hold him when he was drunk and sad.<\/p>\n
There I go again, detailing my failures. But I know I\u2019m not the only one, so by god, I\u2019m going to keep writing.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
January 1, 2004 When writers sit down to write about their own sadness, what is it they wish to accomplish? I\u2019ve been wondering this about myself today as I composed the first line of tonight\u2019s blog: \u201cI\u2019d write about the rather sad and uneventful New Year\u2019s that I had last night, but let\u2019s gloss on […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mlwms.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mlwms.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mlwms.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mlwms.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mlwms.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/mlwms.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mlwms.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mlwms.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mlwms.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}