How much is too much?
by Zoeyjane
When I started blogging in 2004, it went from random everydays to therapy quickly. Without a conscious effort, I began to post every little idiom that came into my head, all of my surroundings and most of the characters I met in them. I didn’t think twice about whether I was saying too much, offering too deep or harsh a glimpse of myself.
I put it all, every damn thing, out there. Loudly.
By this time last year, I’d developed a voice that punched readers in the face sometimes. From the minute details of my nearly-fatal miscarriage, through the graphic descriptions of child abuse and rape, people who read were – I assume – consistently worried about me, and I have to question how many would see a new post’s title and wonder if they really wanted to read it. Would it make their heart hurt? Would bile rise in their throats? Would they shake their heads and wonder why I was alive, if I seemed to have all of this blackness and nothing of light?
Worse, when I got hooked on stats, I noticed that the gloomier, more disturbing fare was far more popular than anything optimistic, or even just not fucking depressing.
I’m a naturally morbid person.
Yes, I have some optimism about me, and the more happiness I find, the less I dwell on past hurts and wrong-doings, and the less cynical I become. But chemically, I’m a dark and twisty person. I’m Meredith, pre-post it.
I have dreams and aspirations and a good grip on reality and maybe-one-days, but for the most part, my mind is an abyss. I read morbid, I watch morbid, I’m more drawn to tragedy than anything else.
And so, it’s on the forefront of my mind that in order to continue this new-fangled self-acceptance, I have to be okay with being morbid. But it’s also right up there at the front that being okay with it doesn’t call for the bulk of my writing to be dark and twisty. That yes, I can put on different hats with each passing mood, and that’s okay too.
I am consistently inconsistent, after all.
What you won’t find here are multiple posts detailing my ex’s emotional conquests over me. What you won’t see me writing are more snapshots of fists against my skin. What you won’t read are posts detailing my life as a victim of X, Y or Z, and my rage because of it.
It’s just too much energy, pouring my blood into these posts. There’s too much potential that this blog, like the last, would end up more salt than aloe. There’s so much more to me than that sad girl, trying to move on and blogging like she hasn’t.
People have told me that I should write. That I should package up all of my metaphors, broken-boned imagery and defiance into a tight little package of a memoir, sell it to the highest bidder and live a life of success via angst. Assuming that I even had that talent in me (which I do not assume), and that any publisher would pick it up (are they still publishing books that don’t have anything to do with cooking?) and that anyone would want to buy it (besides, that is, you supportive readers, because I guilt tripped you into it.), would I want my story put between two covers?
No.
And that’s why we’re here, at this blog, instead of there, where we used to be. Suddenly, I don’t want to be a poster-child for eating disorder/alcoholism/toxic relationships/emotional and physical abuse/sexual assault recovery. Without identifiable reason, I consider myself more, and worth more, than that.
This post was inspired by the book I Am Nujood, Age 10 and Divorced by Nujood Ali (with Delphine Minoui), and was written as part of the Silicon Valley Moms Group book club. I received a free copy of the book as part of the Book Club. You can join in here.
