Skip the title for now. I just spent more than a few minutes thinking about it which means it’s lost all potential for being spontaneously witting and ingenious. New blog. Old blogger. I ran away from my other blog. I’m hiding from that audience. Seeking anonymity here in this world of November Blue. That old audience was heavily weighted toward those who knew me in the three-dimensional world long before I entered cyberspace. And, given the general candor I crave in being a participant in the blogsphere…this was clearly a recipe for disaster. So I’m off the grid.
Which is liberating. It feels very alone for now, which is strangely comforting. It’s as if my other blog had gotten noisy and this new place feels quiet. This blog will be many things which I cannot at this point forecast. The unifying theme will be that it’s my life – my ramblings about my existence in this world. A Whitmen’s sampler of self-discovery, ranting, optimism, sarcasm, depression, glimpses of my battle with bulimia, experiences as a transplant to the great state of Vermont, joys of dog ownership, wedding planning, commentary on popular culture, political musings. I make no promises and no apologies. Just an admission of guilt as the person that always sticks my germy fingers in the bottom of those damn chocolates to ensure that I’m not disappointed by a mouthful of coconut.
Today I feel extremely sad. When faced with strong and complex emotions my language becomes that of a three year old. I speak in abbreviated simplicities. What I feel as a loss of optimism that life is worth living came out as “I feel sad”. The sadness rose up in my throat as I talked to my mom on the phone, squeezing my voice and making it a bit higher than usual. She noticed. I could almost hear her brain searching for the right advice to give, the verbal solution that would alter my mood to a more comfortable place for her. The irony is that the only thing she could have said that would have made me feel better would have been an admission of her inability to fix my sadness despite every hope that she could do so. A statement that it’s okay for me to be sad and the confession that it worries her greatly. And I know these things to be true. So why does some part of me need so badly to hear them put into words. What hypocrisy from the girl who can’t string together more than three monosyllabic words to describe hopelessness. I wish there was a way to transcend language in my relationships. To just sit with another person and feel what they’re feeling. I know on a cognitive level that my mother feels pain for my pain, angst over my struggles, worry for my physical and emotional well-being. Why then can I not truly feel it – why do I imagine that feeling it is dependent on hearing it spoken?
