Tapping the empty well

So I've been trying to figure out, for myself and for my therapist, why I haven't been writing more.

I haven't written in this thing in ... close to a year. I complained about my lack of a story arc. I think on some level an incomplete narrative, or a poorly written narrative is kind of ok with me now. I've made decisions, or hesitantly figured I might do... this or that. But I must do this or that first, like... to prepare. So I'm getting those out of the way. Not that any of that makes any sense, but I'm trying to build a syllabus for my development and maturation.  I've pretty much lived the last several years as a twenty-three year old in denial.

So in the last year, I've been trying to make decisions that would ... perhaps not ultimately lead to any lasting change, which used to bother me, but would ideally lead to some sort of greater knowledge or understanding in some way. Trying to take better care of myself, health-wise. Trying to open up to new experiences and options. Trying to accept that change comes in small steps taken in succession, and to be able to not beat myself up about how long it's taking. As it turns out, Prozac helps with that. Lots.

This has been a very internal process. I don't know why, but somehow in choosing this slow, brick by brick process, I've shut off my ability to externalize. I haven't been writing, except to my friends, who I can assure you, are sick and tired of me.

Possible reasons why I've internalized the process and refused to write about it:

It sounds like justifications for procrastination. All of my "sure, I'll apply to an MBA program once I get my shit together" sounds like a "I'll never get around to that because I don't have faith in myself". Not that it's not accurate, but I just don't want to have to be figuring out how to eat healthily and get enough exercise and take care of my emotional well-being while I'm working a full time job and a really demanding school schedule. Whenever I say it aloud, in writing or in words, what I hear isn't "I want to learn to take care of myself like an adult before I go about trying to take the next adult step" (which is how I feel about it), what I hear IS "I'm putzing about, just like I've been doing since I graduated."

I can't help feeling like specifically my weight loss plight, however successful, is boring. Nobody wants to hear me sound like a fucking infomercial. People ask, and that's nice and polite, but however proud I am of my achievement so far, I know it could be gone soon and I know other people are having a worse time of it. I don't even like to listen to myself talk about it. I feel... somehow... mass-produced, like I've subscribed to some sort of ... sickening pop culture standards of beauty. I feel like a hypocrite saying "Look at me, I lost thirty pounds, aren't I pretty now"? God, Blanche, shut the fuck up, please?

For a lot of this year, I was involved with someone I really enjoyed. I know that no one wants to hear about a good relationship. Bit me in the ass when it ended, but what can you do? That's how it goes. Honestly, the details are prosaic, and since I've nothing bad to say about him, the ending's boring too. Hearts break. As Placebo says in "Bright Lights" "A heart that hurts is a heart that works". Everyone's heard this story. People get together, they have fun. They try to make it work and it doesn't, but only one person knows. It ends, and the other cries. For the first time in my life my broken heart didn't make me want to write. I found the words I had for it were already written. By other people. Lots of Tool and Placebo. Didn't help that I tried as hard as I could to NOT think about it.

I guess another reason why I've been ... somehow absent... is that I've been avoiding it. Avoiding... release. I don't know. I'm afraid of... something. Some ghost that comes out of the page to tear my throat out and I bleed on the page. "Page" as imagined in the magical computer screen where life is written these days. I guess I'm not entirely clear what is so terrible about the ghost-me that lives in the whitespace but she's ... impractical. Unrealistic and intangible. I guess I've been trying for more tangible goals?

No, I've probably just been avoiding her because I don't like her. Or I don't like the me that she reminds me I am. You know, perhaps "Burger Queen" isn't the right song for this post... just a sec. Ahh, Puscifer. Mmm."Conditions of My Parole". Much better.

Seriously, I think I've just been avoiding admitting to myself that I don't find most of what I have to say worth saying. I'm focusing on these minor events and fixating on them to the point that I can't understand why my friends are still speaking to me, but everything else in my life seems... cliched. Self-improvement? I sound like a goddamn Chicken Soup book that pretty much makes me want to puke. A lot. Everywhere.

So I have to apologize here to my nearest and dearest to whom I've been speaking so much this year about the minor bullshit things that have been on my mind, the blah blah blah this minor detail of that thing that happened this week of whatever. What was that about? No idea, and no one cares. I'm bringing back fake names a la Livejournal here, so I am sorry to have bored you Beautiful Lover of D, Roxanne, Trillian, Luke, For Your Information, DragonFan, Peach Smints. Love you all and thanks for your help. I'm trying.

The title of this post "Tapping the Empty Well" comes from a poem I wrote several years ago that I feel pretty ambivalent about, but it's central metaphor and message proved applicable. Maybe sometime I'll share it.