I fell off the blogging wagon. That didn’t really take long; in fact I think it took about two weeks. My “boring life update,” like this one, was rather forced. These days it just doesn’t seem like I have much to post about.
Actually, I do, but none of it seems particularly valid. Of course, in high school it was perfectly acceptable to blog about how lonely we all were, how no one understood us and it was just all so damn hopeless. These days, I feel like I’m supposed to “know better.” If I don’t have friends, it’s cause I don’t go out and make them. If I don’t have a working furnace, it’s cause I was stupid enough to buy a house. I’ve still got the annoying situations, but I’m supposed to have the maturity to just adapt instead of running to the internet and complaining. At the very least I’m supposed to understand that people have worse situations than mine and complaining about mine is paltry.
I guess that’s perfectly valid. In high shcool there were hormones at the steering wheel more than common sense. Instead of thinking about the valid reasons why my parents were trying to control my behavior (to protect me, usually), it was just so much easier to assume they were emissaries of Satan, sent to rob my life of any semblance of happiness until I killed everyone and automatically got sent to burn in Hell for eternity as a result.
Of course, they weren’t perfect, and I’ve always felt somewhat socially crippled as a result of their efforts. I feel unable to form meaningful long-term attachments because I hate people so damn much and assume that everyone hates me and, if interacting with me at all, is only doing so to try making a fool of me (cause I make it pretty damn easy). It’s not their fault, though, and again, at my level of emotional development I’m supposed to be able to fix a problem if I see it, instead of whining incessantly.
Sometimes it’s hard to do much else though. I’ve been verbally blogging to my mother and my partner for a while today, so I figured I’d commit at least a bit of it to the written form. Of course there’s the aforementioned furnace: it’s broken, but thankfully it’s because it didn’t want to kill us with carbon monoxide, for which I’m grateful. I consider myself to have few friends, as always, and I never know what to do with the one(s) I have; this is actually where almost all of my daily stress comes from (and what I’ll probably talk about most at length).
I want to offer advice for the bad situations in which people find themselves; from the outside looking in, it always seems so obvious. But by the same token, I don’t want to damage what already seems so frail with words that may not be so well-received. Life’s not easy for everyone, but for some it’s harder than others, and I do definitely recognize that. While the advice that isn’t so welcome may be useful, it’s still about hard decisions that I don’t know how I’d really make in the same situation. But maybe that’s why the advice is so useful: I couldn’t make the decision myself so easily, why should anyone else have to do so? But then we are brought, again, to my being socially crippled: even if my advice is good, it might as well be as thrusting thumb tacks outwards from my eyeballs for the ease I have in giving it to anyone. I’m just not charismatic enough to be a good friend, cause it takes balls to say the unfortunate truths that sometimes need to be said.
And so, I come to my blog, wherein my verbal vomit serves as an embarkation point for all the ideas floating in my head that are too difficult to say aloud. At least here I can acknowledge that my thought exists. At least here I can pretend like I know what to say or what to do to make everything better for everybody. I really do think I have an idea, but I remain mute. For fear of reprisal. For fear of recrimination. I remain mute.
I’d like to end with an epiphany, an apocalypse of understanding in which I emerge from the cave and know what to do and then do it. But I won’t. I’ll just end, cause all I can do here is return to my childhood where at least I could complain about my inactivity, rather than suffer in silence because of it.