Here I am… yet again… with a new attempt at blogging. That word alone, blogging, makes me cringe. This blog (cringe) is my third, maybe fourth attempt. I started with a MySpace blog, then I transitioned over to Facebook for a bit, then I had a Tumblr which was abandoned for a couple of years, and I’m sure there was some other bullshit I’ve forgotten about. So, why do I keep coming back to it? Fuck if I know. I guess we’re all just trying to leave our mark someway, somehow, somewhere in this world. I guess we’re all trying to find a way to live on even after we are gone. The reality is that I have a bad habit of really going for it and then losing interest after a handful of months when it comes to writing. I’m hoping that I can maintain this blog and fight through my disinterest when it inevitably hits.
When I was in eighth grade, I was selected to write something about leaving middle school, blah blah, and deliver that speech at the graduation ceremony. It wasn’t until years later that one of my best friends told me that her mom had said I was “going to be a writer” after hearing my speech. I can’t even remember what I wrote about or what I said, but I guess it impressed my friend’s mom. She was wrong though, I never became a writer, at least not professionally.
In all reality, calling myself a “writer” makes me cringe. Taking the time to do something that feels so pretentious and self-involved also makes me cringe. Can you tell that this entire operation makes me feel icky? Taking the time to sit and process my thoughts into words feels selfish to me. This is something I’ve wrestled with since I started writing.
I guess if I really think about it, I’ve been drawn to writing for most of my life. I’ve been doing it since I was about 14 years old. It was actually my therapist at the time who suggested I start writing to let go of the things that were bothering me and I have used it as a tool to help me cope with my emotions ever since.
For the most part, I typically write poetry. Again, cringe, major cringe. I have books full of poems that I’ve written that go back to my freshman year of high school. I always feel a sense of embarrassment when I read my early pieces from that time because I thought I was so… edgy. I wasn’t. Maybe I was? It’s definitely the teenage writing of a girl that was trying to figure out who she was while rebelling against anything she could and also living with depression and anxiety. Fun stuff.
I still write poetry, not as often as I used to, only when the mood strikes. I continue to fill up pages and books, it just takes me longer to do so. Sometimes I draw and sketch, as well. I never let anyone read or see these pieces because they are truly the innermost workings of my mind and heart. Things that are so personal and raw that I can’t trust anyone with them, at least not on a large scale. I did post some of my poetry on my old blogs, but I’m still debating whether I want to do that here. I have a love-hate relationship with reading and writing poetry. I can’t really explain it very well and I don’t feel like going off on a tangent.
What I’m going to attempt here will be a mish-mash of all kinds of topics. Life stuff, political rants, pop culture and societal commentary, remarks about the world at large, etc. Love, self-reflection, life lessons, experiences, mental health, and anything else that might cross my mind. I more than likely will touch upon the big questions we, the collective whole struggle with. I don’t expect much to come of this. Hell, I don’t even expect anyone to read this. I just have an itch in my mind and my heart right now that is telling me I need to write. Something that is saying to me that I need to let some shit out of the bag. So, here I go, again.
