There is something very different about writing a blog. When I write in my journal I know that I will be the most frequent future reader. Granted, I know this is most likely the case with a blog too, but the feeling is different. I used to be very optimistic about writing blog posts. Actually, overconfident may better describe my state of mind. Why I thought that my thoughts and observations would be significant enough to attract the attention of a wide, blog-savvy audience I will never know. Maybe it’s because to me, my thoughts and observations are revelatory. They guide all of my actions and decisions, so why shouldn’t they be? I think I failed to understand that thoughts and observations are just as personal and influential to others as they are to me. Somehow, I didn’t stop to ask myself whether I ever read anyone’s blog. I didn’t. Which brings me back to writing a blog post. Why do it? To answer this question, I’ll need to explore my own mind. Uh-oh…
First of all, I’m an introvert. Yep. There is no way to hide it and I cannot deny that I tend to be quite uncomfortable in unfamiliar situations. I don’t like crowds. I like excessive noise even less. I’m the type of person that will get up in the middle of the night to tighten down a leaky, dripping faucet in the bathroom on the other side of the house. drip… drip… drip… Going to sleep? Impossible. It must be fixed.
I don’t understand when people tell me the story of their life immediately upon being introduced. Why are you telling me about your the time you broke your ankle while skiing ten years ago? That your daughter is graduating high school and that your favorite flavor of Slurpee is coke and tropical punch, mixed? I probably wouldn’t even tell you if an irritable-looking bee landed on your face during our conversation, let alone that…
Wow. Here I am three or so weeks after beginning this post, resuming my writing and once again realizing the source of so many of my behaviors. I stopped writing this post because I was bored with it. Yet again, despite telling myself over and over again that no one would read it, I found myself writing jokes I thought others would find humorous. I added certain words to spice things up. I wrote about being an introvert because others might identify with the idea. Do you know what motivates me? Do you know why I (actually you) write like you do, talk like like you do, behave like you do? Because you are afraid.
You are afraid of being left out of the discussion. Of not being a part of the blogging world (everyone has a blog these days, so I need to have one too). You are afraid of what others think of you or perhaps worse, what they don’t think of you — that they don’t think of you. You are afraid of money — the loss of it, even the potential of making too much of it. You are especially afraid of what others would think of you if you behaved exactly as you wanted.
But wouldn’t it be liberating? Wouldn’t you feel better, more relaxed, more comfortable, if you are exactly the same person on the outside as you are inside? Wouldn’t things be better?
Would they? Would people find me strange? Weird? Odd even to a point of discomfort? Would I have any friends? If I did, they would almost certainly be different ones, wouldn’t they? How could I know this? Should I try? What if things go tragically, horribly wrong? Sometimes I can’t even believe how strange I am on the inside. Is it only me, or does everyone else hide themselves in plain sight, tenuously delivering performances to the expectant audiences they encounter daily? Terrible to disappoint them, no?
I find myself once again writing for someone else, for some reason I cannot even place. I am reminded of the fact that I act and speak for someone else, on so many occasions. I speak for myself only rarely, and usually with only my closest friends or relatives. I am told that I am talkative, even to a fault in these situations. But in all others, I am someone completely different. Someone that isn’t me. Someone that I could literally step out of and scoff at, were it possible. The problem is that this behavior is programmed, second-nature even. I often don’t even realize how distant, stuffy, and terse I appear to others. I promise this isn’t me, not really.
The person I know is happy, sarcastic (strangely dissimilar I know), playful, nice, and enjoys singing a good teen anthem with no care, and downing an entire pint of Ben & Jerry’s like there is no tomorrow. The person I know is opinionated, passionate, and has high expectations. The worst part about my affliction, my fear, is that I want others to know this person because I love this person. But I have realized, there are beautiful people everywhere, and I don’t see them. They don’t show themselves just as I don’t, and this is perhaps one of the greatest tragedies I know.
How much does fear control us? I know it controls me. Everyday.
I am going to fight it. I am tired of being afraid. Starting now, I will battle my fear. It is time. I can’t even imagine the possibilities. This is my reason for writing a blog. I have found it. I will battle fear and I will write about it.
Hello me. Nice to meet you. It’s time to change. No more waiting for another day.
Hello me. It’s nice to see you finally.