Lately, I’ve been struggling. A few weeks ago, one of my closest friends succumbed to Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. She was truly a beautiful soul, and losing her sort of sent my brain into a tailspin of doubts. She was very young–in her early thirties–and beyond simply mourning her passing, it also slapped me upside the head.
Here I am, healthy and hale, (for the most part) and I am wasting my life.
Yes, I have beautiful children, family, and friends, etc, but I avoid doing so, so much, because I am terrified to do so. I am an extroverted introvert–meaning–I can work a room. I can chat and mingle and make small talk with whomever, rather gregariously so, but really, I just want to be at home, away from everyone, where I only need to talk to those in my most inner of inner circles, and keep my interactions with others completely under my control.
I’m great on social media because it doesn’t require a bra or people.
I’m great with the vague notion of interaction.
I can live in my headspace of dirty jokes and words on pages and not be bothered with reality.
That doesn’t sustain me. It’s not making me happy. I am incomplete.
We are all of us, incomplete, but I feel like the marionette unfinished by the toymaker, and placed on a shelf. I’ve got all of the working parts, but nothing guiding the strings.
Right now, I have six–SIX–completed novels which I’m terrified to finish the edits on and publish. (I have decided to self-publish, as I’ve dealt with the big houses in academia, and it’s a lot of rigamarole I wish not to deal with in my creative life.) I can’t even gather the ovaries to send it to my
or The Professor to read it. My cousin is a freaking NYT Bestselling author, and has basically begged to read another–(because, nepotism, and I make a killer martini) and I just haven’t been able to stomach the idea. Read my scholarship? Fine. My book reviews? Great. These little memoir-y bits on B2B? Acceptable. But sweet fuck. Read my fiction? You may as well open my brain and read the gray matter like tea leaves.
And I’ve fallen woefully behind on pimping my blog. I suppose I’ve always viewed this little space on the internets as a happy destination for me to share my love of food, books, and fitness, not caring about traffic or who read it. That just doesn’t seem good enough anymore. I’m not content with letting this blog drip slowly into complete anonymity. I’ve written hundreds of thousands of words, hundreds of recipes, featured a MILLION .GIFS THAT THE MASSES NEED TO SEE RIGHT MEOW.
I cracked. I splintered. I needed and need help.
I’ve done the UNTHINKABLE for me. I picked up a–gasp–self-help book. Because books, unlike my shrink, don’t expect me to talk about my feelings with anyone else but myself.
Also, like social media, no bra required.
I started and stopped a bunch of them. Tony Robbins, while he may be everyone’s guru, is not for me. Same with Stephen Covey, Wayne Dyer, and Deepak Chopra. I am unmotivated by rich, middle-aged men, it would seem. Though, I understand how many find solace and inspiration in their words.
I am, Tom! Gah! Didn’t we talk about this last night? <img src="http://s.w.org/images/core/emoji/72×72/1f609.png" alt="