Some of my recent tale-spinnings have done little to uphold my blog’s original vow of honesty, but I still applaud myself for desperate attempts to grasp the threads of the bright side.
This blog has played the role of the Master Deep-Tissue Masseur, skillfully kneading every sinewy muscle until he finds an enormous knot. At that point, Sir Masseur leans his face down, just centimeters from mine and breathes quietly,
“This feels like it’s from 1982. Are you sure you have the time and energy to work this one out or shall I leave it be”
As my writing gains readers, which thrills me, I am noticing an accelerating preoccupation with how it is received. I have always been intuitive in a sense, and have prided myself on the ability to read between the lines.
That blessing however quickly erodes into a dysfunctional curse when coupled with insecurity, which is most often a byproduct of extended unemployment, which in turn creates crippling fear.
Welcome to the Perfect Storm.
By my paranoid misconstrued translations of texts, emails, comments and conversations from this past year’s trying times, some readers have alluded to my being negative, in the form of questions like,
“Hey. Are you ok? These aren’t the posts we’re used to.”
Others seem disappointed by the lack of hard truth in entries that are laced with humor or hollow depictions of sunshine, and have expressed that an honest and raw telling may be more compelling.
“If you’re in a heap on the floor, we want to hear about it!” (That is not a direct quote)
The craziest part is the laughable notion that people are giving it nearly as much weight as I think. People do have their own lives and their own preoccupations, leaving very little (if any) room for judgments of my silly blog!
It’s as if I think I’m Jim Carrey in the Truman Show and all humans are here to provoke and observe my every action. The narcissism in that concept alone is enough to blow the canvas ceiling off this set!
But, in an effort to trick the world (or a tiny fraction of it) into believing in my humor, wisdom and strength during the hardest times, instead of flashing my bitter, angry, terrified, shaking in my boots hand, I have floated around like an amoeba, morphing my perspective into whatever I think people want to hear, leaving very little wiggle room for any truthful expression at all.
Being the Master Masseur that he is, Sir Blog has alerted me to the fact that this paralyzing practice is the VERY THING that has kept me from blowing the ceiling off of my limits as an artist, and all other roles I play on a daily basis.
“There it is!”
I grunt from my gut, with an involuntary jerk of my heel, halting his forcefully massaging arm.
Regaining my composure, I breath deeply, take a pregnant pause and respond,
“You may resume. Let’s get to work on that knot, Sir. It is KILLING me.”
The answer is No. Ninety percent of the time am not OK. Yes, 10 percent of the time I am in a heap on the floor (the other 90, I spend looking for work and parenting which I can’t seem to do from the floor, although I have tried) 100 percent of the time, I cannot for the life of me see how this will work out in any favorable way whatsoever.
But, clearly it must….because it just must. There are beautiful little people involved.
If any of you have obtained advanced, sneak-peek copies from Masseur Motherfog Blog, please skip forward a dozen chapters or so and let me know how it ends. He absolutely refuses to give me the slightest glimpse. Something about the “importance of the process…”.
Blogity blah, blah.
Gotta get off the floor. Kids need lunch.
Blogger’s Note: I cannot take credit for the wit of “blogity blah, blah” It came from my dear friend Heather months ago in an email and I laughed out loud and vowed silently to steal it.