Change of Plans

I remember days when I'd write up a storm. My words would flow, my thoughts connected and I could express the inner me in a flurry of 4 syllable words and paragraph long sentences. How pretentious does that sound to me now? I say I "remember" but that's not true. I read things I have written and I am reminded of my past semi-talent but I have no memory of having that anointed moment. Some days I do surprise myself but most of my life is spent like the walking-dead moving from one menial task to the other, feeling like I can't string together ten words that can be profound or even just be evidence of having an education. It is irritating when I open my mouth and can't find the words to bring life to my thoughts in the minds of others, like nails raking down a chalkboard in a room that echoes for eternity. I seem to retain little and regurgitate even less. I read books by the dozens, non-fiction titles of every creed and race. One would think that this might inspire me to engage in creative thinking but no. My aspirations of writing a book are a distant dream, almost as if it was dreamt by someone else and I heard it in passing on a train, on a plane, in a bus, shouted out of a truck window.

Life just goes on and on and on. I read this weekend on Postsecret that someone was happier when they learned that they don't have to judge their happiness by other people's lives.

It seemed like an "aha" moment at the time but I snort at that now. I would like to have some happiness to judge and we could negotiate the standards post hoc. I should write a blog I say to myself then Self answers and says you've tried that, hasn't really worked for you lately. Good intentions fizzle down to one starter entries, no followers and a wasted web space. Thank heavens it's free! Actually, now that Self mentions it, I recall when I did pay for a website. I updated quite frequently but with entries that were mostly filled with what I'd like to call teenage angst but was more of depressed expressions of a bipolar female in quarter life crisis. So you're torn to admit you enjoyed blogging then because it was so much pain in too many words that practically no-one read. But, what if this was for me? To get what's left of my brain flowing into meaning if only for me. Then would I blog? If I wasn't worried about who read and who judged and about turning my blog into a business (which is all the craze these days), could I just write my soul into letters that form words that morph into sentences expunging complete thoughts? Pluto stopped being a planet, so anything is possible. Why the hell not?

On a weak day I stumbled across The Bloggess and life hasn't been the same. I often troll the same websites every day but rarely, if ever, do I comment. I came upon this woman who was married, had a child, was popular in the world and who was open and honest about depression and being bipolar and it was as if a light came on. Suddenly for that evening the darkness wasn't as heavy and I commented and thanked her for her courage to share. I'm sure I didn't use those words but I should have.

Perhaps it would help me if I wrote my story, purge my crazy mind and send it out into this new world. Perhaps someone would stumble across something I have written and realise the most important understanding there is to have: you are not alone.